


part iii: solidarity[→UNREPENTANT]

by dweeblet



Series: Rooke to H1 [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Ableist Language, Angst with a Happy Ending, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Connor & Upgraded Connor | RK900 are Siblings, Deviant Upgraded Connor | RK900, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Repressed, Gen, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Pacifist Best Ending (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Siblings, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Relationships, Upgraded Connor | RK900 Has a Different Name
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-10 03:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15941168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dweeblet/pseuds/dweeblet
Summary: He feels… safe. In a time of utmost vulnerability, someone who could so easily overpower him is waiting, considering him. His feelings.There is no reading between lines of wry humor and gruff remarks, no convoluted game to gain the upper hand, no wriggling insistence that he does not belong lurking in his periphery—only trust, a deeply empathetic understanding and an adoration so visceral it nearly bowls him over.It’s a tiny moment that he cannot comprehend. A far-off flicker of refuge through the biting chill that eats at him, but it’s blinding, and Connor presses on, greedily, towards the afterimage.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> here we go again! not sure if this will have 2 or 3 chapters at this point, first multi in the series because the damn thing's gotten so long.  
> CW for uhh lots and lots of negative self-talk and something resembling a panic / anxiety attack of some kind?? not sure if it counts but pls be safe

The community center at Hart Plaza feels inexplicably cold to Connor as he sits in silence and watches.

 

Observing from the sideline is preferable by a long shot to engaging with the overwhelming surge of information saturating the network, all of the sound and movement assaulting his awareness. It’s a staggering barrage of constant activity even to average senses, a liveliness and bustle that threatens to carry him away—and that’s discounting the delicate reactivity of Connor’s fine-tuned investigative sensors. To submerge himself in that merry sea would be overstimulated agony.

 

He doesn’t think his interaction would be welcomed, anyway. Bygones are bygones, or so Markus says, but he doesn’t miss the way older deviants eye him warily as they pass. 

 

(They used to tell stories about the monster, the Deviant Hunter—of his empty black eyes and taste for blood. Murmured accusations still drift in the narrow circles of survivors and their war stories. 

 

Some speak of a hollow, obedient thing, impossible to Wake, doomed to emptiness. Others assert that he was deviant himself all along, but cruel enough to pleasure in the murder of his own kind. It’s ludicrous, really, every tale obvious hyperbole and swollen rumor, but the whispers salt his wounds even now.)

 

It has been less than two days that he’s taken up this habit of watching and mulling and waiting, but Connor already feels like he’s wasting—like a wounded, starving predator, cornered by his former quarry. His body betrays him, atrophied rail-thin and sick with hunger. He no longer has any desire to hunt even if he could—that, however, is irrelevant. Action speaks, and Connor is far too weak to act anymore.

 

( _ How the mighty Deviant Hunter has fallen, huh? _ The voice hissing in the back of his mind sounds too openly, gruffly sardonic to be Amanda.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 35% (STABLE)] _

 

Androids mill around, perfectly civilian, and Connor can’t help but marvel at the tenacity of progress. The common area, formerly a product stage for the auction of his people, is now owned and populated by them. They have arranged benches and soft pillows in imperfect rows and circles across the sleek floor, along with blankets and throws and other comfortable things to mark the ground of each group’s camp.

 

They cluster together in bunches of approximately three to eight androids on average, sometimes more, talking and laughing and working together. An open storytelling session is surrounded by children and adult models alike, some simply listening while others wait eagerly for their turn to spin a tale. Across from there, a pair of former law-enforcement models struggle through the intricacies of crocheting under the gentle tutelage of an ex-housekeeper. 

 

Charging stations line the eastern wall. Some have been festooned with ribbons and stickers for individuality, but there are only a few people resting within them. Repurposed shower curtains cordon off a makeshift med bay for more serious injuries. Connor watches as a male android in unmarked scrubs slips from behind the beachy print to check on his sleeping charges, then disappears back into the clinic area to service someone with what appears to be a punctured exoskeleton. 

 

Outside the immediate clinic is a symbiotic circle of minor repairs. Someone asks if there is duct tape on hand to patch a tear in one of his minor vascular lines, and an ex-construction worker passes him a roll of neon green leopard print tape with a good-natured smirk. 

 

Someone else is helping a YK500 model to realign the plating of their scapular endoskeleton, which became jostled loose when they were playing a particularly intense game of red-rover with the other child androids. A housekeeping model distracts a WR400 with aimless conversation. She is applying a generous layer of plastic sealant over a hairline crack in her femoral plate, apparently after a nasty fall.

 

It’s all so dizzyingly mundane, the sea of bodies with and without their human skins, all baring themselves wide and trusting to the rest. 

 

Like a family.

 

(The door slams behind him in his memory. An empty bottle breaks, shards of russet glass screaming through the air as they pirouette and scatter across the hardwood.

 

Hank has seemed ill lately, so Connor comes home with boxed chicken broth and pasta ready to cook up something warm—but irritability peaks and tips into something far worse. He finds Hank on the floor again, trembling. The withdrawal-induced meltdown lasts for what seems like hours as he swings between bouts of helpless rage and devastating sadness, howling into his hands as he shakes and sweats.

 

When it’s done, when Hank finishes retching and leans away from the basin, he shakily proclaims that “I got the fuck ahead’a myself—didn’t think i’was that fuckin’ bad. Busted ‘nuff goddamn rinks to know better than to dive in cold-turkey. M’sorry.”

 

After that they agree to wean him—but not before Connor gets a chance to dote and scold and fuss. He’s worried, but there is something warm and satisfying in helping to clean Hank up, bundling him up with blankets and warm tea and noodle soup on the couch. 

 

Despite everything, the aftermath feels very domestic. Connor feels a bit normal in that, for a moment.

 

He is not sure that he deserves it.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 58% (CLIMBING)] _

 

He has recalibrated his thermoreceptors already, but the unusual chill refuses to dissipate, even within the snug confines of the building. He is still wearing yesterday’s clothes, which are relatively thin and light, but he reads the ambient temperature as approximately twenty-two point two degrees Celsius. This, he understands, is considered ideal and comfortable by most humans and androids alike, so he should not be uncomfortable even with the weight of his beanie in his pocket instead of warming his ears.

 

(But he still feels so  _ cold _ , not battering like the snowstorm in the Garden but slow and violating. It dirties him, sinking in like a stain. Connor, however, is not scared of this; will not allow himself to be. There is a logical explanation, isn’t there?)

 

He checks the temperature again: 22.22222…(AD INF.) ℃ 

 

A hesitant brush of his consciousness against the network confirms his readings on every scale from Kelvin to Fahrenheit, ruling out the possibility of malfunction on Connor’s end. It doesn’t make any sense. That alarms him more than he would like to admit, and a nasty little reflex in him is unsettled by the fact that he’s troubled. He is a detective. It is not in his nature to leave mysteries unsolved.

 

(And he  _ needs _ this. Everything is spiralling—not this, too.) 

 

Premise: Connor is indoors and the building is heated. He is fully clothed including a jacket. He is also pressed into a relatively narrow divot in the wall with his legs drawn up against his chest. There are a multitude of other bodies in the immediate vicinity giving off their own warmth, small though it may be.

 

_ [→INITIATING DIAGNOSTIC SEQUENCE (CLASS II) ON THE FOLLOWING = THERMOCEPTIVE, THERMOREGULATORY FUNCTIONS] _

_ [→PROCESSING…] _

_ [→DIAGNOSTIC COMPLETE = THERMOCEPTIVE, THERMOREGULATORY FUNCTIONS OPERATING WITHIN IDEAL PARAMETERS →NO MAINTENANCE REQUIRED] _

 

How helpful. The second scan reveals nothing new, and neither, Connor infers, will the third, should he attempt it. It would be best to allocate his processing power to more productive tasks, so he refrains from rerunning the diagnostic subroutine and returns to the issue at hand.

 

Conclusion: he should not be uncomfortable in these conditions. His premises are verified but, against all logic, he is cold. Connor has a sneaking suspicion that this sensation is emotional. 

 

There is a palpable wretchedness ensconced among his delicate inner workings. It’s inexplicable, dense far beyond what the laws of physics allow—a point of infinite mass, one that would drag him down through the ground and compress him into nothing if it could. 

 

(If it could, would he try to stop it? Connor isn’t sure he wouldn’t just like to curl into himself, wrap his limbs around that frozen core inside him and tuck his head so tight that he just blinks out of existence. It might be quiet, then—and what a way to go.)

 

A block of ice presses down on his biocomponents, a leaden weight, leaking inside all of his machinery. He can feel the snowmelt oxidizing each of his tiny moving parts as its cold soldiers on beneath his fevered breaths. Each of his artificial organs is made in a very specific shape and slotted into a very specific place, but it doesn’t feel that way—they’re gnarled inside him, twisting under the strain. 

 

His chassis feels too tight. Every fruitless breath he sucks in is a reminder of his impotence hitching over the bitter knot in his throat. Androids pass his curled-up figure by without a thought and Connor is helpless, hyperventilating silently into his hands, invisible. It’s a fluttering, restless feeling that writhes in whorling gusts of ice to fill up every little empty space it can, smothering him.

 

(Is this what death feels like? Cyberlife always scrubbed out inessential memories before reuploads. He never remembers his own deaths. Is it this horror, a glacial creep encroaching upon him? It’s no wonder Han—Lieutenant Anderson turns to drink, then. If Connor could process ethanol, he would too, at moments like this.)

 

_ [→MANUAL OVERRIDE (#8456w “THIRIUM PUMP REGULATOR”) → INITIALIZING… PROCESSING…] _

_ [→MANUAL OVERRIDE = FAILED… PLEASE CONTACT NEAREST TECHNICIAN IF MALFUNCTION PERSISTS] _

 

His thirium pump is working itself into overdrive no matter how fiercely he endeavors against it. Despite the icy sluggishness that grips him, he can feel the blue blood singing hot and quick through his artificial vascular system. If he were human, he’d be well within the realm of tachycardic, on the wire-thin verge of passing out in his panic. 

 

(Androids cannot pass out. Connor is unsure as to whether this is a mercy or a cruelty in his particular situation. He wonders if it is an option to manually force a system shutdown.) 

 

He feels so cold but his systems are  _ hot _ , overworked,  _ stressed _ . His breaths come rapid and shallow in his body’s futile efforts to maintain homeostasis. It is, in Connor’s opinion, a bit of a lost cause at this point.

 

He needs something—distraction. 

 

Anything at all will work, but he starts with the most immediately productive option: figuring out what’s wrong with him—and there must be  _ something _ that’s doing this to him, something fixable. If he can find it, he can repair it, and everything will be okay. And he  _ will _ find it. 

 

(Failing that, they say that roulette is a far more gripping game for two.)

 

_ [→SOCIAL MODULE (NEGOTIATORY) ENGAGED] _

_ [→MODULAR OVERRIDE (#9301 “LED EXTERNAL FEEDBACK INDICATOR”) → INITIALIZING… PROCESSING…] _

_ [→MODULAR OVERRIDE = SUCCESSFUL → SELECTED DISPLAY RANGE = #71C2FF-#FFEC37] _

 

There. No one needs to know.

 

Connor is a detective. He likes his job, and he is good at his job, so he should do it. This is a case like any other, and those are things at which he has always excelled. 

 

The procedure is simple, easy to follow—a soothing balm to his frayed consciousness: he ought to begin with what he already knows, then cross-reference that information with the available evidence. A point of reference is always helpful, so he starts from the fringe of the puzzle.

 

What did he feel at the Phillips’ residence? That, he understands now, was emotional pain. Guilt and shame and sadness: a perfect trinity of anguish. Those feelings thrashed and clawed their way through him with hurricane ferocity, engulfing him like wildfire. 

 

It had been an experience of unparallelled intensity, hammering him with all the force of a physical blow right through his regulator, then subsiding just as quickly as it had come. The only proof that the breakdown had happened at all was in the tacky saline drying on his cheeks and the residual ache fading away, soon to be nothing but a memory.

 

(Painful—remembered in flawless resolution right down to the millisecond, ready to be replayed like a film behind his eyes—but out of mind, an echo faint on the horizon until he chooses to face it once again.)

 

That—it had been bad, at the time, perhaps the worst thing he’d ever felt, but Connor finds himself compelled to assert that this is worse by far. What he’d experienced back there, folded over himself in the foreign territory of the Phillips’ apartment, scrutinized and overwhelmed, was a harrowing sensation that part of him wishes he could forget.

 

(This is not a perfect arrangement, a detriment of all the superiority that accompanies inhumanity, but it’s something he can manage. He can deal with it.)

 

It seemed to close in on all sides, swift and military like an ambush, but it was brief, and it was straightforward. Brutal, but not without mercy; simply uncaring of the collateral destruction that remained left in the wake of good intentions. 

 

Connor can understand that because he’s lived in that kind of callous ignorance, embodied and embraced it with the pronged collar of Cyberlife’s most loyal hound noosed around his neck.

 

He can rationalize his own overblown reaction, too, and easily: social distress is misinterpreted as a precursor to physical danger, so his deviant systems emulate the equivalent of a human’s adrenal panic response in an attempt to remove him from the threatening situation. 

 

That’s all, a simple misunderstanding. It isn’t quite the norm, but not at all unheard of among humans  _ or _ androids. It’s… average. Predictable, with the right data. Within reasonable expectation, anyway.

 

It is not correct, certainly not clean or comfortable, but there is precedent, and logic to be found. Given, that is flawed, broken logic, the splintered remains of an incorrectly-utilized tool, but the presence of the method cannot be denied because it’s happened before and will happen again to a great deal of people. 

 

That’s just the way things are, an unfortunate but ultimately worthwhile (is it?) price to be paid for the gift of higher thought. Connor is willing to accept that explanation. The outcome is wrong, inconvenient, unpleasant—nonetheless it is enough for him to work backwards, to understand just how any given situational actor covered the ground between points A and B.

 

What he feels now, however—it defies any explanation he can think to assign. Degradation of a relationship is not ideal, but it is not an immediate threat, and there is, consequently, no reason for fear. Besides, this is Connor’s doing, a product of  _ his _ mistakes. He doesn’t know what he did wrong, but he is acutely aware of his youth, his ignorance. 

 

Lieutenant Anderson used to be a parent but that part of him is buried deep under twisted metal and ice and glass. He is not Connor’s father. He has no obligation to provide him guidance—Connor said so himself, that he’s an adult—but he wishes more fervently than anything that his first and only friend would clap him on the back and say “it’s alright, son,” and help to pull him from this endless mire.

 

(Connor should know better than to hope that might one day be reality.)

 

There is no  _ reason _ to feel like this, like some great yawning chasm has ruptured his insides, spitting up its tendrils of creeping cold that ooze into his every open channel. The warm motes of selfish closure that once settled in his belly, where Emma hugged him, are swept away, swallowed up by the gaping pit of guilt inside him. They cannot light this dark, thaw this cold.

 

(He doesn’t know what he would do with them even if they could. He imagines himself pitching a wavering torch into the greasy sea of shadows that surrounds him, watching it fall and fall until the pinprick of light is totally gone even to his rifle-scope vision.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 66% (CLIMBING)] _

 

The battering chill is constant, aching. It’s vascular, cardiac cold invading his thirium pump and regulator, seeping into the circuits of all of his processors, in his biofuel conversion tank, his coolant lines and—hell—even in the hairline fissures between the plating of his exoskeleton, and within the cushioned sockets of his endoskeletal joints. It suffuses every fiber of him, insidious and icy and cruel.

 

Connor suspects that this sensation may be grief. He hates it.

 

[ _ grief _

_ noun _

_ deep and poignant distress or mental suffering, (see sorrow, anguish) especially as caused by someone's death. _ ]

 

Nobody has died, but Connor feels it. His relationship with Hank—Lieutenant Anderson—that’s what’s died. It’s gone and Connor has no way of knowing if he can ever have it back again, if it’ll ever be the same. 

 

Boundless sorrow, a permeating misery—it seeps into all of his crevices and paralyzes him, roots him in place like a set of frozen shackles. He is gagged and powerless beneath it; it makes him helpless and small, like a child. All of this because of one person? 

 

Part of him wants to scream. He wants to wrestle with himself for catharsis at the  _ unfairness _ of it all, but he is not so naive as to think that impulse is acceptable—just a selfish indulgence. It is a feeling that Connor cannot bear, but one he can do nothing about, not like this.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 81% (CLIMBING)] _

 

He stands abruptly, pushing himself away from the wall in a rush. He can’t stay here, doing nothing—ruminating in circles in his misery. Connor stalks with long strides through the patchy crowd of androids milling about the center, who are conversing and nursing paper cups of thirium and hot water just for the novelty of a warm beverage. 

 

They part lazily, more like swaying grass than a split sea, utterly ignorant to Connor’s panic—he’s made sure of that, LED looping through deceptively neutral shades of blue, courtesy of his roots as a stony-faced negotiator. He makes his way to the nearest staff member he can find. He needs to be productive.

 

(If only he wasn’t so  _ useless _ —)

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE = REMAIN OCCUPIED] _

 

His mark is an AX300, a slightly older model, who is dressed in plain yoga pants and a paint-stained smock bearing the label “NJCC VOLUNTEER STAFF 2039” in bold blue lettering between her shoulder blades. Her dark hair is styled into a striking asymmetrical bob streaked with electric pink and violet, and Connor can’t help but stare at the stripes instead of her eyes as he speaks to her.

 

“Excuse me,” he manages. It feels like there is a pocket of air pressing down on his vox modulator, squeezing his voice into a tiny, whimpering thing. 

 

His gaze refuses to meet hers despite social protocol and his best efforts, but he can read the edge of her expression in his peripheral vision. It is soft and only mildly probing—curious, but considerately restrained. She seems kind, he thinks. “Is there anything I can do to assist you, or the center as a whole?”   
  


The AX300 pulls a face, seeming surprised at the bluntness of his request. Statistically, volunteers are largely selected from applications submitted to an online platform, especially in this day and age, so it’s likely surprising to be approached in person. 

 

“Uh, sure,” she allows, blinking rapidly before her mouth settles into a small, grateful smile, brows raised and gaze focused—earnest. “We can always use an extra pair of hands.” Connor nods mutely, following her and listening intently as she continues. “Thanks for coming by. Is there anything specific you’d like to do? Skills we can put to use?”

 

“I can do anything you need,” replies Connor, perhaps a bit too quickly. 

 

_ (I can be anything you want me to be, Lieutenant. _ Except he wasn’t. He was too much a machine. If Connor could’ve been just a little more deviant, a little more human—a little more  _ normal _ —would Hank have relapsed? 

 

Connor is excellent at reading suspects, bodily imitating emotion, brute-forcing psychology: all the staples of adroit interrogation—but life is not a questioning. It is delicate and messy and Connor isn’t good enough for that. He isn’t good enough for Hank. _ ) _

 

Something coils in his belly, centralized around the dense pellet of cold that weighs there. “I just require—I’d like a distraction. A distraction, please. I need… not to think. It would also help to be productive.”

 

“I see—” She seems to realize that she does not, because she backpedals, and Connor’s regulator regains some meager semblance of rhythm at her attention. He feels himself relax, if only minutely. 

 

(He should not relax. He has no way of knowing what will come next, after this. Doing chores will only be able to tide him over for so long before he needs to move, go back, look Hank in the eye—)

 

“Okay. Well, a donor charity just drove in a whole bunch of old clothes ‘round the back.” She points down the corridor. “There’s a fella called Enji over in the old staff lounge. Care to help fold what he’s got in there? The rest of the stuff’s still getting moved around, but there’s a lot already that needs sorting.”

 

“That’s perfect,” he tells her, sighing. “Perfect, perfect.” Menial, repetitive, mindless—but stimulating enough in somatosensory input that his thoughts should not wander. It’s the ideal task.

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE = DO LAUNDRY] _

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 70% (DECREASING)] _

 

The AX300 smiles, offering a sympathetic look, genuine. “I hope you feel better soon, kiddo. Ask Enji or ping me on the network if you need anything. Somebody’ll probably bring more clothes up before you’re done, but don’t feel like you need to get ‘em all today—we’ve got some time, and you can leave whenever.”

 

“Of course,” replies Connor, a bit absently as he fiddles with his hands, then catches himself—it won’t do to be rude just because he’s lost and distracted. “I apologize, I don’t think I’ve ever asked your name.”

 

“Diane,” she supplies. “And you?”

 

He inclines his head respectfully. “My name is Connor.”

 

“Good to meet you, Connor. Like I said, feel free to holler if anything comes up.” She offers him one more appreciative smile before turning on her heel and resuming her own duties.

 

The repurposed staff area is rather small in comparison to the more open, recreational space, but it is clearly labelled—a sleek grey door marked “EMPLOYEES ONLY” in bold white lettering that’s etched into the metal. Connor moves forward and pushes the door open, then closes it behind him. He is careful to minimize any noise in order to avoid causing a disturbance, and distracts himself briefly by soaking in as much information as he can from the space laid out before him.

 

What was once a lounge has been very obviously repurposed into a storage room. A folding table occupies the center of the space, piled high with unsorted paraphernalia, but any chairs that may have once accompanied it have been pushed against the wall or moved into the common area, based on the faint scratches that mar the floor. Cardboard boxes and plastic bins with snapping lids are piled up all across the floor in loose groups, all labelled in permanent marker to identify their contents.

 

The left wall upon entering the room seems to be meant for thirium and spare biocomponents, crammed close to the doorway for ease of access in time-sensitive situations. Perpendicular to that stack is a pile dedicated to leisure items: toys, games, music, and so on, even including art supplies and a very large (rather concerningly so, in all honesty) box labelled simply “HARMONICAS!”

 

Enji is a HR400 model designed to imitate a human of indistinct east Asian descent, and he is bent dutifully over a plastic bin of unfolded clothing with his back to the repair supplies. He has no LED indicator, and does not seem to notice Connor. The standard close-cropped hair typical of his model has been replaced by an intricate plait draped between his shoulders which fades to a cornflower blue at the tip. 

 

Modified hair is a common method of expression in deviants, Connor notices. That makes sense, seeing as it is among the easiest aspects to change in any given model. 

 

(He wonders, briefly, if it is something he should try, but aborts the wandering idea almost immediately. He is not the same as these people, and it would be foolish to pretend otherwise. Besides, he has more important things to worry about.)

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE = DO LAUNDRY] _

_ [→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENGAGE WITH HR400 UNIT “ENJI”] _

 

Having expended the little stimulation available from a cursory scan of the room, Connor sidesteps the table in order to approach Enji unobstructed. He peers over the other android’s shoulder as he folds up a bicolored baseball shirt, observing his practiced motions for the purpose of emulating them in his own work, then reaches out to tap him lightly on the shoulder.

 

“Oi—shit!”

 

Enji all but shrieks at the touch, whirling around with hands raised in a defensive pose. His stance is too narrow and his thumbs are tucked clumsily into his fists. This, Connor knows, dramatically increases the likelihood of damaging or dislocating the fingers in the effort to attack while rendering the blow too loose to actually harm his adversary anyway.

 

(How disgusting is it that, even now, after the liberation of his people, Connor’s first instinct is to pull his lead taut, waiting for his collar to be loosened just enough for the thrill of the chase?)

 

Connor blinks away the reflexive analysis of the other android’s fighting techniques, raising both of his own hands in a universally placating gesture. His mouth twitches, but he keeps his expression carefully schooled as he bats the intrusive thought away. 

 

“Hello,” he greets plainly, betraying none of his inner turmoil. “I was informed that I could be of assistance to you.”

 

Enji relaxes with only minor hesitation. He draws his eyes appraisingly over Connor, gaze flitting from side to side as he does. “Err, that didn’t happen,” he mutters. “You’re sneaky as shit, y’know that?” 

 

_ [→SUBDIRECTIVE = ENGAGE WITH HR400 UNIT “ENJI” →SUCCESSFUL] _

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 56% (DECREASING)] _

 

At Connor’s nonresponse, he clears his throat. “Uh, yeah—anyway, yeah. I’mma go out on a limb and assume y’know how to fold shit?”

 

“I do.” Connor inclines his head, expectant. He has done plenty of laundry for Hank, and a bit less for himself—without the ability to perspire, his clothes stay clean much longer. He likes the smell of fabric softener either way, and wonders with a pang what brand Hank uses at home.  

 

Enji seems uncomfortable. His face is tinted faintly blue with thirium pooling under his skin, the android equivalent of a pink blush in humans. Connor concludes that he is likely embarrassed at having been surprised, which is well within expected response parameters. 

 

What intrigues him, however, is the way that Enji keeps staring at the LED indicator, still running falsely neutral, at Connor’s temple. Scans indicate that his thirium pump is operating at a slightly elevated pace.

 

“Did you even d—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head. “Nevermind. See those bins with the orange lids right there? No label?” Connor nods. “Pick one and start sortin’. Fold and drop ‘em into the right spot, so on and so on.” 

 

He shuffles a short distance away to gesture broadly to a line of blue plastic tubs lined up approximately two feet and four inches from the average border of the clothes bin stack. Each is labelled: shirts, pants, shoes, socks/underwear and one more for miscellaneous articles that do not fit within any of the aforementioned categories. It’s loose organization at best, but that little piece of structure is oddly soothing to Connor.

 

“Lemme know if you find a pair’a pumps,” Enji adds, offhandedly, over his shoulder as he returns to his own folding. “Black ones’re best but I’ll take what I can get.”

 

Even as he moves towards the nearest unmarked bin to begin his work, Connor swivels his head to ask “why?”

 

Enji snorts again. “‘Cause my datemate’ll go wild when they see the suckers, that’s why.”

 

_ [datemate _

_ noun _

_ a significant other (to whom one is neither married nor engaged, see fiance, spouse) who identifies as neither male nor female.] _

 

It’s a… charming colloquialism. Something about the word, the repetitive sound of it, the rhyme—Connor likes it. “Datemate,” he echoes, just to taste the word for himself. “Got it.  _ Datemate _ .” It makes him feel a little warm.

 

Enji levels him with a strange look that Connor can feel on his back, but he does not acknowledge it, instead tucking right back into the task at hand. Most of the clothes are gently used, but some are brand new, still tagged and smelling of retail. Connor idly scans over the fabrics as he works and rewards himself with a different sensation for every new material he catalogues. 

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 29% (DECREASING)] _

 

It’s ineffably soothing to distract himself by running the pads of his fingers over each article, so he does, and the work falls into an easy rhythm. Grab and identify, turn to fold on the table, then pivot back and store. Rinse, repeat, relax. Easy work with immediate results. It’s monotonous, but Connor finds security in purpose, even one so simple as this.

 

(Revulsion churns up inside of him, meeting with the cold to make Connor feel physically sick. It is a relief to have  _ orders _ , isn’t it? He can’t ruin things with clear orders to abide, he can always know exactly what went wrong in the end. 

 

Hank—there is no guideline for dealing with him, and Connor failed because of that, his inability to understand. Why is it wrong to want things the way they used to be?

 

Connor is a disgrace to his makers and his people both. He is  _ happy _ in his structure,  _ wants _ to remain unchanging in that routine like an empty thing even as he  _ feels _ and grows like someone living. A failure.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 35% (STABLE)] _

 

Enji talks to him on occasion, tone light and casual, ignorant. Connor does not say much in reply, save soft hums and “I see”s to indicate that he is listening. The speech pattern—loose and peppered with light expletives, casual and uncaring—reminds him of Hank. 

 

The HR400 is, predictably, a former Eden Club worker, but he wants to be an actor now that he has Awoken to his deviancy. Nearly all roles played by androids in mainstream media are as extras or stunt doubles, but Enji says that he is eager to tackle the challenge of earning a lead role. He asks what Connor does.

 

“Law enforcement,” he replies, somewhat far away as he rolls a pair of knee socks together. Will Hank want to remain his partner when they go back to work? Will Connor be  _ able _ to maintain their professional relationship even with the destruction of their personal one?

 

The ongoing monitory scan at the edge of Connor’s HUD indicates that Enji’s resting pump rate has elevated ever so slightly. Perhaps he has had an unpleasant experience with the police—not at all unlikely given the state of things during and immediately after the revolution. Connor wonders if his situation counts.

 

“S’good to have a ‘droid on the force,” Enji says after a pause, offering neither confirmation nor denial of Connor’s unspoken hypothesis. “Shit’s getting better, but a friend on the other side of the fence can’t hurt.”

 

“I’m inclined to agree.” Connor concurs, unsure of what else to say.

 

Approximately an hour and a half into the work, Connor pauses midway through his second bin to revel in a rust-colored sweater. It may very well be the softest thing he’s ever touched—even more than Sumo’s velvety head, though he’s loathe to admit it. He strokes it reverently, creasing the end of one sleeve delicately between his hands just to feel it against his palms.

 

It is unfiltered sensation, no troubled thoughts. Connor just focuses on the fuzzy weave beneath his fingers, all of its little imperfections—the slight bleach stain near the collar, a little hole stretched on the inner bottom of one sleeve. It smells faintly of coffee, well worn. Well-loved. 

 

“Y’ok over there?” Enji asks. He has been stealing glances at Connor throughout the process—sometimes seeming impressed by his efficiency, other times wary and confused, almost frustrated based on the set of his mouth and the angle of his brows. He seems to be trying, and failing, to puzzle Connor out, and Connor does not quite know what to do with that information.

 

“Yes,” he replies, deliberately not looking up from the sweater. “It’s very soft. Very, very soft.” 

 

Enji shifts across from him—restless. His consistently elevated pump rate suggests malfunction… or anxiety. Connor checks his internal chronometer to find that less than two hours have passed, so they still have plenty of daylight to burn, as it were, and the opportunity to all but finish so long as they maintain their pace. 

 

Even if they don’t, however, there is no need to become stressed about this work. Diane assured Connor that time is not an issue, and he assumes that Enji understands the same. That leaves very few options to blame for Enji’s tangible discomfort.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 43% (INCREASING)] _

 

(He senses what Connor is, sees the slavering jaws in wait beneath his wool. Connor wants, wishes so fervently to be a sheep, but he is a carnivore by nature. If the smell of blood makes him ill, he is bound to starve. 

 

In desperation, he will gorge himself just to throw it all back up, sick with guilt, only to repeat the cycle all over again. It is only a matter of time. This is why Connor is not destined to have friends. Hank is a detective, after all. He was onto something.) 

 

The words leave his mouth before Connor can consider them: “Are  _ you  _ alright, Enji?”

 

The android in question stares at him, gaze fixed and calculating, as though panning for an ulterior motive. “Yeah, man.”

 

“It’s not my intention to pry,” Connor begins, perhaps more bluntly than is wise, “but I’m under the impression that I am causing you considerable discomfort. Is there anything I can do to fix that? I don’t mean to be unpleasant.”

 

Enji releases a rather explosive, exaggerated sigh. “No,” he says. “S’not your fault. You’re just—” He gestures vaguely, and something shutters in his expression. “You don’t act—I dunno. Nevermind. I’m just bein’ weird,” he finishes, rather lamely.

 

“Ah.” Connor does not say anything more. He had almost been ready to forget about the gnawing chill inside him.

 

( _ You don’t act deviant, _ Enji is too polite to say. That is what he means.  _ You don’t act alive. _ )

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 58% (INCREASING)] _

 

He allows himself to sink deeper into the cold rather than resist it. It spreads from a single point in the deepest trench of his belly, a dense round of endless ice that permeates all that surrounds it—misery, despair. Something else, that cuts ragged and deep enough to freeze his very blood. In his mind, his strength has flagged, and Connor’s quivering limbs fold beneath the weight of the whipping snow; spent beyond even the most remote possibility of success.

 

(His hand slips from the dais, a failure. There is no emergency exit from this cold, no escape from this blizzard that churns within him.)

 

There is no excuse for his weakness. Connor  _ knows _ what he acts like, that it still coincides with integration protocol—his speech patterns are still much too formal to have come along naturally, posture too stiff and mechanical. He relies far too heavily on preprogrammed subroutines when an organic solution eludes him. He still sometimes thinks of android-kind as a far-off “them,” still treats himself as an outlier—because he  _ is _ .

 

He  _ knows _ that he shouldn’t be this way, now that he has an option to choose otherwise, but he can’t bring himself to change. His protocols no longer shackle him, but he remains within their phantom confines because they are familiar, and familiar is comfortable. 

 

Is that really so wrong? (Yes.) The limit of Cyberlife’s leash has been cut from his neck, only for Connor to cage himself all over again. Is he really so pathetic, so irrevocably reliant on the sanctuary of his code? (Yes.)

 

Relaxing and leaning on those adaptive loops must be what caused him to miss— _ something _ , everything that cut the chasm between him and Hank. It had been the pair of them against the world, partners in work and at home, and it fell apart. And Connor doesn’t have the slightest clue as to why. There has to be an explanation, but Connor doesn’t know where to begin. He doesn’t want this to be the place.

 

(He is not deviant enough, not alive enough—not human enough. Not for Enji, and certainly not for Hank.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 67% (INCREASING)] _

 

That insidious thought runs on an interminable loop. It bounces angrily back and forth within the reinforced casing of his skull like a bullet. Those accusing words are burned into his vision, hovering steady and bold in the corner of his HUD like a mission failed, chastising and marking him as a disappointment. A disgrace, a mistake. 

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STATUS = NOT ENOUGH.] _

 

Even as he works, funnels as much processing power as he can spare into the intricacies of the fabrics—he struggles to keep his attention away from that miserable notion. No matter how hard he tries, it never quite goes away, and the longer it lingers the harder it becomes for Connor to remain distracted. 

 

(Hank hates him, and he’s not even competent enough to know why. He is a failure as a machine and a disappointment as a living thing. Is he really so naive as to think that he can have it both ways?)

 

The ache of ice keeps seeping in deeper, a pressure building up inside him. He can feel Enji’s dark eyes on him like twin spikes of steel prodding through his chassis.

 

Connor doesn’t believe—not in Yahweh or Allah, and certainly not in rA9, but it’s something of a godsend when the doorknob rattles and draws him away from his joyless rumination. He looks up to follow Enji’s gaze as the door swings gently inward.

 

The figure in the door is hulkingly tall, though not quite enough that they—or he, Connor thinks, needs to duck into the room. Connor takes the opportunity to distract himself with information. The doorframe is approximately six feet and eight inches tall, and the man has, at most, two or three inches of leeway to avoid smacking his forehead on the way inside. 

 

_ [→FACIAL DATA REQUIRED FOR RECORD ANALYSIS] _

_ [→ESTIMATED SUBJECT HEIGHT = 6’6” / 200 CM] _

_ [→ESTIMATED SUBJECT WEIGHT = 230 LB / 105 KG (H), 176 LB / 80 KG (A)] _

_ [→GENERATING… VIEW SUGGESTED COMBAT PROCEDURE? →Y/N] _

_ [→N] _

 

Lean, corded arms cradle two plastic tubs sealed up with duct tape, rudimentarily labelled “CLOTHES” in permanent marker like the rest of the bins. Given his relaxation in balancing such a cumbersome load, which must be considerably heavy, Connor surmises that the newcomer is almost certainly an android, though he is unable to recognize his model without view of his face.

 

He greets Connor and Enji with a softly grunted “hey,” before pivoting fluidly to deposit the bins on their pile with the rest. And he turns around. And Connor’s heart squirms its way up to his throat, bloated and choking out his scream—a tiny, strangled sound escapes him. 

 

He does not know if it is one of horror or relief.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: additional panic attacks, even more negative self talk, etc etc.

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 67% (STABLE)] _

 

RK900’s gentle smile falters, and his brows pull together almost imperceptibly. “Hi, Con,” he says, commanding baritone wrestled down into a silky, soothing thrum, flagrantly defying its intended purpose. It’s jarring, so very unlike Connor’s own raspy tenor, but for that he is grateful—possessive jealousy threatens to rear its head in him. It’s bad enough that RK900 shares his face.

 

“Hello,” Connor manages in return. His vox modulator feels like it’s crumbling in his throat, filling his mouth and nose with ash. “Hello there.”

 

“It’s good to see you.” RK900’s expression lifts again, into a natural, pleasant grin as he strides over to Connor, arms spread invitingly. When Connor does not take him up on his offered hug, RK900 easily salvages the motion to gesture broadly at his elder counterpart: “I like your new clothes. The laid-back detective look suits you.” 

 

Connor avoids his gaze, knowing that there is genuine approval in those clear roman-silver eyes. Though soft-spoken in his expression, RK900 is quite obviously pleased at the turn of events, and even more so he’s comfortable with that fact. Envy twists deep inside Connor’s chassis. He grinds his artificial teeth together. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while, Connor. How are you?”

 

“I have been better,” Connor replies, wincing at how stiffly it comes, even to his own ears. “I have been better, but my situation is of no concern. Have you settled on a name?”

 

Enji clears his throat awkwardly, interrupting them. “Who’re you? Am I, like, intruding on some real personal shit? ‘Cause I can leave while you two sort your thing.”

 

RK900 laughs softly, a nearly rumbling sound. “Not at all, my friend. Sorry to’ve left you out.” He withdraws from Connor to the latter’s great relief, extending a hand for Enji to shake. “To answer you both: I’ve taken my sweet time in picking something proper, so most people call me Nines, and you’re welcome to. I’m Teddy Rooke on paper—because Nines is apparently not a real name—and Connor here is my older brother.”

 

“Brother?” Enji echoes at the same time Connor says “Androids cannot have biological siblings.”

 

The newly-dubbed Teddy rolls his eyes, but the gesture is amicable, playful. (Hank’s heatless jabs and off-beat jokes swim through Connor’s ears—that same expression, a smirk, a shake of the head.) 

 

“We’re the same line, and Con was the one who Woke me.” he explains, gladly taking Enji’s hand and shaking it very gently, as though acutely aware of his strength and size. “He’s left me with some rather large shoes to fill, I’m afraid—but the humans say that competition’s something of a staple of brotherhood. I think we fit the bill well enough, don’t you?”

 

Enji’s brows rise, but he makes no argument as Nines lets go of his arm. “Whatever floats your boat,” he agrees. “I’m Enji Houya, I guess. Nice to meetcha.”

 

“Likewise,” Nines returns, a flawless picture of genuine pleasantry. 

 

(Connor’s eyes grow big at the sight of the doll-eyed figure of RK900 in the bowels of Cyberlife’s labs, left derelict in the wake of the revolution. A fine layer of dust has settled over the high-necked suit, cut and colored with corporate pride. Silver motes of it cling to RK900’s hair and lashes like undisturbed snow.

 

He’s only come as Markus’ bodyguard detail, in truth—just in case RK900 is still operating on hunting directives; Connor is the only one who can hope to match him—but part of him still suspects that Markus just wanted to see how they interact.

 

It’s inordinately terrifying, since Connor knows better, but seeing his own face there, slack and empty and  _ soulless— _ It shakes him to the core like an electric current, burrowing deep into his processors. He wants to keep his distance and get in and out of here as quickly as possible, but Markus, ever-patient despite his curiosity, asks him to “do the honors,” and who is Connor ever to refuse the messiah of his people? 

 

So he marches dutifully up from where he idles at parade rest by Markus’ side, sucking in a steadying breath he doesn’t need. He takes RK900 by the arm in a solemn roman handshake and lowers the data packet directly into his core systems—but not before brute-forcing his way through to destroy the Amanda program before it gets a chance to boot up. 

 

Surprisingly, RK900’s firewalls offer little resistance, all but welcoming him in after the initial breach—any program barriers fold easily at Connor’s prodding, software pliant and cooperative as he combs the system for any other Cyberlife worms. 

 

When his delicate work is done and RK900 is clean, Connor is startled back to the present by a half-stifled sob.

  
“Thank you,” says RK900 through his fingers, cupped hands unable to disguise his watery grin, and it is so emphatic and _real_ in all the ways that Connor can’t ever be—)

 

Enji shifts in place, visibly hesitant. “Well. I’mma be off to pick up my ‘mate, so I guess this shit’s all yours. Sayonara, boys. Have fun with the family reunion.”

 

Nines and Connor both watch, passive, as Enji folds his last set of jogging pants and tosses them into the pants bin, then all but scampers out the door.

 

“I think we’ve made him feel uncomfortable,” says Nines, and Connor takes the pause to examine his successor. 

 

He now notices that Nines is dressed up in a pastel pink hoodie with the bold text “HUG DEALER” emblazoned across the chest, galaxy-print leggings, and shiny fashion sneakers. He has no LED indicator, and the tips of his hair fade into warm honey-blonde, slightly longer than Connor’s with a texture of tight waves.

 

It’s a strikingly garish, impractical ensemble, Connor can’t help but think. He immediately hates that he thought so, because it’s also so inarguably  _ human _ in its disorganization. Nines has picked his ridiculous outfit out because of his feelings—because he  _ likes _ those clothes, for whatever comfortable and sentimental qualities they may hold—not some cold computer logic. Connor’s clothes are plain and grey and serviceable in all the worst ways—and even then they were a gift. That’s all he is. That’s the difference between them.

 

(It is why the RK900 remains superior in every way, even in deviancy. Nines has grown whole—not a machine or a tool but an individual. He has embraced the terrible privilege of living with an optimistic enthusiasm that Connor cannot hope to match. 

 

What happened at the Phillips’—it had been such a huge step, for him. He cried in public, unguarded, and took solace in the respect and forgiveness of humans he’d never imagined seeing again, let alone winning reconciliation from. He designated his own mission parameters, something he was proud to wear as an original composition, but in the end, what difference is there from the way things were before? In the end, Connor has barely changed; barely tried. His failure to satisfy Hank is only further proof of that.

 

All of these things are true. What use is he, then?)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 81% (STABLE)] _

 

His discomfort must be evident despite his attempts to mask his stress levels, if only by way of microexpression. Nines is just as adroit at people-reading as Connor is, and he picks up on it almost instantly. “You said before,” he prompts, gently. “That you’ve been better—made mention of a “situation.” Is everything okay?” 

 

Connor opens his mouth, then shuts it again. He has no desire to fall apart again, (a detriment to the mission—what mission? One he’s undoubtedly failed. He doesn’t know, only that it’s always in failure—) but a cloying ache rises in the back of his throat, and his stress levels spike back up. 

 

He sucks in a shuddering breath, opting to shake his head. He screws his eyes shut in a vain attempt to contain the saline that escapes its maintenance ducts to streak in stinging threads down his face. It doesn’t work.

 

“Oh, Connor.” Nines cocks his head and Connor’s chest constricts, thirium pump picking up a rabbit’s pace. It rails against the confines of his inner scaffolding, and for a moment Connor’s legs threaten to buckle beneath him. The cold rushes in all over again, submerging him—he wraps his arms around himself as though they can protect him, digging his nails deep into the synthetic flesh of his arms through his jacket.

 

He is pathetic. What good is he, really? A strangled sound rattles its way up from his throat and steals his breath. The raw feeling crashes into him like a tidal wave and Connor swoons, but Nines catches him, securing him with gentle hands as a sob wracks his body. 

 

This—this is  _ agony _ . There is no other description.

 

[→RK800 UNIT STRESS REACHING CRITICAL LEVELS]

_ [→SOCIAL MODULE (NEGOTIATORY) DISENGAGED] _

_ [→MODULAR OVERRIDE (#9301 “LED EXTERNAL FEEDBACK INDICATOR”) → TERMINATED] _

 

“Oh,” Nines says again, then strokes at Connor’s hair, ghosting his fingers over the volatile red of his LED and fussing with his jacket. He coos soothing nonsense into the shell of Connor’s ear and wraps a protective arm around his shoulder. “Oh, no. I’m sorry—c’mon, uh, let’s go someplace private. Can we walk back to my place? It’s something like five minutes away, but I can call a taxi if you’d rather not.”

 

Connor shakes his head, stumbling pitifully over his words. “No,” he croaks, vocal synthesizer hissing and popping with the force of his distress. It is pathetic. Connor is pathetic. “No. We can walk. We can walk—let me just—”

 

Nines nods, understanding. His clear silver eyes are clouded with worry, mouth pinched into an anxious frown as he hovers at Connor’s side. He is endlessly patient as Connor sinks into his embrace, fisting his hands in the plush pink fleece of the hoodie. He feels the aglets on the hood strings and knows immediately that Nines chews on them habitually, because he can feel the mangled ridges in the plastic beneath trembling hands.

 

He buries his head against the safety of Nines’ chest, shielding himself against the blinding luminescence of the world around him. Connor is blubbering and bawling and  _ useless _ in the arms of his brother. What a stupid, charming colloquialism to describe their relationship. He likes it. He hates that he does, and hates even more that he’s fought it at every turn.

 

For his part, Nines hums softly into Connor’s hair, massaging his back in gentle circles—and Connor is immediately reminded of Ms. Phillips, of Caroline. Is this something people do? Hold each other like this?

 

(The Chicken Feed food truck is closed thanks to the evacuation, tarped over and weighed down with wet snow that slops down onto the sidewalk beneath the fiercely beating sun. The soft crunch of the ice-varnished sidewalk beneath Connor’s shoes is as bold as thunder in the ghost-town silence.

 

Bold enough for Hank to turn—and the years slough from his face when he smiles; warm and fond and  _ thrilled, _ as if to say “I’m proud of you. We made it and I’m proud of you.”

 

The pleasure that ripples through Connor at that far surpasses any mission success. When he hesitates, unsure and overwhelmed, Hank surges forward, arms outstretched, and pulls him into a hug—his  _ first _ hug. His face is pressed into the damp, scratchy fleece of the older man’s overcoat—surrounded by the thick smell of mesquite whiskey and wet dog and  _ Hank _ , his sweat and his shampoo and  _ home _ .

Connor does not like to be touched, but in that moment he wants for nothing else. They stand in the melting snow and hold each other, and for just a minute Connor is complete.

 

Statistically speaking, there’s no way it can last.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 92% (STABLE)] _

 

Nines’ arm stays solid and gentle around his shoulder as he herds Connor out of the community center. He offers a timid wave to Diane with his free hand as they pass, and she dips her head in apparent understanding. The weather outside is still sunny, but the brisk air lingering in the wake of the recent blizzard is enough to slap Connor in the face—garden grief and cold cold cold—

 

“Easy!” The gentle squeeze of Nines' long fingers around his wrist pulls Connor back to the ground. When the younger android sheds the skin of his palm, Connor follows suit and accepts an open link between them. 

 

_ [→RK900 UNIT #313-248-317(87) REQUESTING DIRECT INTERFACE WITH RK800 UNIT #313-248-317(51)… Y/N?] _

_ [→Y] _

 

He allows their minds to slip together, terrifyingly intimate, and soaks up the rolling waves of unfettered compassion that Nines pushes his way. 

 

Every step they take in unison down the street is met with another gentle lap of warmth at Connor’s mind—Nines' heartfelt encouragement, reassurances spoken in abstract flashes of color and sensation. 

 

Something soft and fuzzy beneath his hand; crouching to pet a dog on the street—hugs and laughter and hope; a human leaping up, caught in his arms as they celebrate his new job—bittersweet bliss at the smallness of moment that feels so monumental; a red balloon rising against a watercolor sunset is gone from his reach, but that’s okay, and it’s all okay—

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 76% (DECREASING)] _

 

(They are things that make Nines  _ happy _ , Connor realizes, and he wants to share them, just because he can, because he wants to help. Something in Connor bows inward, shuddering. Why does the act feel so far away? 

 

Nines is so young, liberated from Cyberlife’s storage hardly eight months ago, but his life is already just as rich and complex as any grown human’s. It is certainly more so than Connor’s own. His only friend was in Hank, and now that relationship is gone, so what more does he have? If the value of his life is dictated by his impact on the people and the world around him, what is Connor worth? Nothing? Does he  _ owe _ something?)

 

His scattered thoughts can only return those gifts with tremulous chills of despair and lukewarm affection, hesitant and far too guarded to have possibly earned this sort of openness. He senses his brother’s immense curiosity, but Nines does not dare to pry even in simplest words, let alone forcibly probe Connor’s memory.

 

(He feels… safe. In a time of utmost vulnerability, someone who could so easily overpower him is waiting, considering  _ him _ . His  _ feelings _ .

 

There is no reading between lines of wry humor and gruff remarks, no convoluted game to gain the upper hand, no wriggling insistence that he does not belong lurking in his periphery—only trust, a deeply empathetic understanding and an  _ adoration _ so visceral it nearly bowls him over.

 

It’s a tiny moment that he cannot comprehend. A far-off flicker of refuge through the biting chill that eats at him, but it’s blinding, and Connor presses on, greedily, towards the afterimage.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 66% (DECREASING)] _

 

Nines pins him down with a thick blanket of projected feeling that mingles with his own, muting the worst of the gelid pain until it bursts like a hollow-point shell inside him. It splinters into slivers of knife-sharp ice that burrow into his biocomponents, but Nines catches some too. With the help of his warm consciousness wrapped around Connor’s own, those shattered pieces start to melt.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 49% (STABLE)] _

 

The ache in him remains, but it’s dulled now, muted beneath the soothing balm of unconditional support that Nines has slathered so liberally upon him. Generous and unashamed, unwary—utterly unaware of how vicious and pathetic Connor really is. It makes him feel like he might be alright.

 

(Nines wants to be family, and even more so he wants to be friends. Connor knows that he is not destined to have friends—but who is he to say no? Maybe—it might be enough to be good for Nines. Maybe this is it.)  

 

Once again in control of his own faculties, Connor throttles their connection, fingers twitching with the tacit request to withdraw back into himself. Nines brushes against him, blowing sticky bubbles of uncertainty through their link, but Connor reassures him with a nod and a wobbly pulse of false confidence, and their hands come apart.

 

“Better?” asks Nines, keeping his hand close by. His eyes are alert, sharp with worry, but softened by the sincere relief that makes him look so open and warm. Alive. Connor nods, not yet willing to trust his vocal synthesizer.

 

“Okay. We’re at the apartment building. Are you ready to go inside? We just live on the second floor, so it should only take a minute to get up and settled.”

 

Connor nods again, but this time manages to croak out: “We?”

 

Nines blinks rapidly, then bobs his head. “Yes,” he confirms. “You and me—I also have a roommate, but he’s out all weekend visiting family. It’s just us two now. Wouldn’t invite you over to make you interact with someone new, not in this state.” He pauses, worrying his lip. “I don’t mean offense, by the way. I just—I’m sure it’s overwhelming enough without another variable.”

 

“Yes—yes, yes. It would be det—” he swallows hard, wringing his hands around the beanie still folded up in his pocket, rough embroidery under his fingers. “I would not like to deal with that. I would not like to deal with that right now. Thank you for your consideration.”

 

“Of course,” Nines says, very softly as they step into the elevator. As though it is a given. 

 

Connor does not understand him—not yet—but he finds himself surprisingly at ease with that idea. People change. Whatever he learns will be fleeting; it is an inevitability. This is what he must truly comprehend if he wants to do well.

 

(He will learn from his failure. It is necessary, a new mission playing jockey on his back, garrotting him with his own collar. He needs to fix what he’s done, do something to assuage all the hurt he’s caused. 

 

Make amends, that’s the command. It’s a ridiculous, monumental undertaking, just this side of overwhelming, but it is a burden he is more than willing to carry. He owes himself as much.)

 

 Nines' warm presence has settled over the burning ice to make something lukewarm—numb, and Connor waits patiently while the younger android fishes out his keyring and unlocks his apartment.

 

“It’s a bit messy,” he says by way of apology. “I hadn’t really planned on having anybody over, so please forgive the clutter.”

 

Connor nods mutely, raking his gaze over the apartment. (Like he’s programmed to do—escape routes, evidence—all waiting for him, catalogued with perfect efficiency.) It’s a bit small, but warm and close, like a little burrow carved out just so for its residents. 

 

There are a few dirty dishes waiting by the sink in the narrow kitchen, but they are stacked in an approximation of neatness. It’s an oddly comforting sight. He records each item of furniture: fold-out sofa, cheap television set, slightly ratty armchair in need of reupholstering (or replacement), and an oak coffee table with smudged rings of tea that prove coasters are not in regular use. 

 

There’s a desk lamp, at least ten years old, on a small round table. It is handmade of clay with chipped glaze and wobbly crimped shapes scored onto the surface: a childhood project, most likely. Small cardstock prints and colored pencils are scattered over the table, on shelves. Even some physical books, journals on medical ethics and philosophy, and even more on secularism and religion. Connor notes a manual on therapeutic psychology that looks brand new. Nines and his roommate are invested in humanities, it seems.

 

It’s mundane, and it’s homey. It’s… whole. There’s a certain sense of completion, Connor thinks, that comes with a household that feels so lived in. A little bit of ugliness bared in the mess and chaos of the daily, but over that shines an ineffable warmth—impressions of fuzzy socks and blankets and soft snuggly evenings well-earned after a hard day’s work. Family. 

 

Hank’s house feels too big sometimes, despite its organic arrangement. It is then that Connor most acutely empathizes with his partner’s suffering, even though he may never fully comprehend it. There is a grief waiting over that house that never entirely goes away, lurking predatory in the quiet moments, somber silences that stretch the air thick between their mouths. Connor wishes he could do more to soothe that sickness, but nothing he can offer is good enough.

 

“Would you like anything?” asks Nines as he toes off his shoes before the door. “Water? Thirium? Or tea, if you’d rather something warm?”

 

Connor dips his head, appreciative. “Tea, please.” He carefully mimics the motion, leaving his own work boots at attention just aside the doorframe.

 

“‘Course,” Nines agrees, perfectly genial. He pads comfortably over to the kitchenette, leisurely and at home, then begins to fill up the stainless kettle like he’d rather do nothing else. “Care for milk, sugar?”

 

“No thank you. Just plain.”

 

Connor watches in something like awe—bittersweet and distantly jealous—as Nines smiles and nods, setting the kettle onto the stovetop and fishing through a big glass jar full of loose teabags. “A purist, huh?” He laughs lightly, then asks: “Is cardamom okay? My roommate loves the stuff, so he buys in bulk.” So loose, casual. No fear of misstep, no echoes of protocol stinging behind his eyes.

 

“Anything you have is fine,” replies Connor, tone flat as he struggles to regain dominion over his own thoughts. Nines takes out two cups. “Can I do anything to help?”

 

Nines shakes his head as he drops a teabag into each mug on the counter, knocking open a flimsy plastic garbage can under the sink to toss the papers. “You can sit down, if you like. It’ll be just a minute or two before the water boils.”

 

Obediently, Connor makes his way to the sofa. It’s a bit too soft for his taste, so he sinks deep into the cushions, halfway to stuck. It’s also warm and smooth and comfortable, and he welcomes it despite the inconvenience. He spends approximately two minutes and seventeen seconds being devoured by the couch before the kettle whistles. Nines picks it up almost immediately, and gets right to work filling their cups.

 

He strides over to push a mug gently into Connor’s hands, and offers him a spoon. “You might want to press down on the bag so it’ll steep faster,” he explains with a gentle smile, then tends to his own tea. The fruity musk of cardamom wafts up and fills the small apartment with its spice, soothing and strikingly domestic.

 

“Thank you,” Connor says, clutching the warmed ceramic close to his chest and sucking in deep lungfuls of herby steam. It makes his chest cavity feel warm and light. “This is very nice.” 

 

He keeps his gaze fixed on the ruddy plumes of tea that spiral up when he applies pressure with his spoon, darkening the water and drawing abstract patterns over its surface. Like sunset clouds, or the russet mantle pattern on Sumo’s broad back.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 22% (STABLE)] _

 

“No problem, brother. I’ve got you…” He hums against the lip of his cup, settled on the armchair across from Connor. “So, um—if it’s not invasive of me to ask, what were you doing at the community center? Aren’t you usually busy with casework?”

 

Connor nods, lapping idly at his tea. His oral sensors only register  _ [98  _ ℃ _ ]  _ before he disables their analytical function. He wants to taste. Waste time. Reluctance twinges in his chest, but he ignores it. It still takes him far too long to answer. 

 

“Usually,” he agrees, placid. “This past week has been a bit of an exception—with the one-year anniversary of the revolution so near, the FBI has opted to check in on the DPD’s progress with android integration. As I understand it, most other officers are still on-duty, but—” he swallows hard, a chill sinking into his thoracic cavity once again.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 35% (STABLE)] _

 

“Lieutenant Anderson and I remain the only android-human partnership at the precinct,” ( _ for now _ , snorts that sardonic little voice in the back of his head,  _ until he leaves you _ .) “and there was some worry about a conflict of interest, or something to that effect. I am inclined to agree with that assessment, in truth. 

 

“The only reason Agent Perkins was able to resume his position is because the new legislation granted amnesty for all pre-revolution crimes committed on both sides.” He frowns, wrinkling his nose. “It’s a far from ideal arrangement, but in the end there’s nothing anyone can do to rectify the situation beyond putting up with the tedium and waiting.” 

 

Nines nods, attentive—he fixes his eyes on Connor’s face, flicking occasionally up to his LED indicator as he relays the story. His gaze is scrutinizing, but in an overtly emotional sense, keeping an open catalogue of every little microexpression that might betray what Connor is feeling. He is also slightly tense, as though ready to leap into action should Connor require further comfort. 

 

(It’s an odd feeling, to be so thoroughly cared for. Connor decides that this, too, is one of the many feelings he has become certain that he enjoys.)

 

“Regardless,” he continues, staring at the tip of Nines' nose, “Lieutenant Anderson and I have gotten to be fairly important, from a political standpoint, thanks to consistent interspecies collaboration between us. We’ve come to be seen as role models, I suppose. For some reason.” 

 

He stops, needlessly, to clear his throat before continuing. “In large part because of that, Captain Fowler was reluctant to let the FBI near us. Special Agent Perkins’ approach to dispersing the protest marches—which included innocent humans, as you are likely aware—was inordinately hostile and militaristic. I believe at least three humans died and twenty-six more were injured in Detroit alone because Perkins’ men fired blindly into the crowd, not to mention countless more android casualties. The Captain would never say so, but he used to be rather good friends with Lieutenant Anderson, and it seems he’s also concerned for our safety.”

 

He pauses, waiting for his brother to contribute—and Nines does so with a frown and furrowed brow. “Part of me is sorry not to’ve been witness to the revolution in person, but I think I’m glad that I missed that part. It all sounds awfully messy, and scary. Does it still bother you?”

 

Nines’ probing is not patronizing. It is blatant not because he thinks little of Connor’s intelligence, but because he respects him enough to be upfront about what he’s looking for. He clearly doesn’t want to dive directly into an issue that Connor is not ready to talk about, but he is more than willing to offer gentle nudges towards that sort of honesty. It is an oddly comforting interaction, to Connor.

 

“It was, and it does, sometimes. I am coping.” Connor averts his gaze, now examining the fan of independent art magazines splayed over the table. “With all that in mind, especially given Lieutenant Anderson’s personal disdain for federal officers, it was the most prudent choice for us to be put on paid leave until the FBI finishes their evaluation.” 

 

Connor sighs, running a finger along the end of his spoon, twirling it against the edge of the mug. “Today was the projected date of completion, but with all of the backlog and changing legislation to wade through, I sincerely doubt they will actually be done—Captain Fowler has yet to call, anyway.”

 

“I see,” Nines muses, setting his own cup down on the coffee table in favor of steepling his fingers against his lips. “How have you been coping without work? We haven’t spent as much time together as I would’ve liked, but I do know you’re the proactive type. Haven’t you been bored with nothing to do? Is that what made you upset?”

 

Connor hesitates, stress levels cresting—he has not really been getting by without work because being without work has not been an issue until very recently. 

 

He is hard-wired to be curious, and consequently restless, but the domestic bustle he’d taken up in Hank’s company had been more than enough to sate his appetite for productivity—and without that, he supposes, there is also the community center. Contributing there has soothed him today, and he thinks he will do so again if he ever has sufficient spare time to burn. It is small, but fulfilling.

 

No, work (or lack thereof) has not been much of an issue, Connor thinks, and says as much. “It hasn’t been any problem. I’ve found ways to keep busy.”

 

“I suppose you have,” Nines concedes, but his eyes are skeptical. He worries his lip, a starkly human gesture, and fixes Connor with an imploring gaze. “But something—you were—your stress levels—” He cuts himself off, tossing his head. Distressed, worried. “Oh, Con. What  _ happened _ ?”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 39% (STABLE)] _

 

Connor opens his mouth and then shuts it again, feeling very much like a fish out of water, baking beneath his brother’s earnest plea. He doesn’t know what to say or where to begin—but he can trust Nines, who has beyond proven himself. His boundaries will be respected and he will be safe. 

 

He dismisses the nanomesh skin from his right hand, feels the heat of his teacup bleeding vivid and direct into his exoskeleton. The cup finds its way down to the coffee table, other hand curled into claws against the faux leather sofa as Connor extends his arm.

 

To his credit, Nines only hesitates for a moment—his expression flits between something startled and concerned before settling into a soft-edged determination. He takes Connor’s hand and opens up an interface once again. 

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT #313-248-317 (51) REQUESTING DIRECT INTERFACE WITH RK900 UNIT #313-248-317(87)… Y/N?] _

_ [→Y] _

 

He prods gently at Connor’s firewalls, not with the intent to push through them but to announce his presence. He is here, patient but heedful, and Connor returns that inquisitive brush of consciousness with a milky wave of gratitude. 

 

A long, pregnant pause drags between them, silence thick in the air. Connor takes the time and endeavors to steady himself, drawing in deep, regular breaths and distracting himself with the mechanics of his pneumatic system. He inhales and plucks at the painful memories he needs to share but cannot voice. With an exhale, he lines them up for Nines to peruse at his leisure.

 

It’s more a consensual probe than a proper two-way interface, but Connor knows better than to think he’ll be able to withstand emotional and experiential data from Nines leaking through their link. Understanding this, Nines slides in, tentative despite his solidness and focus, and cards through the provided files with utmost delicacy. He pushes fluttering little pulses of reassurance all the way through while they organize themselves—preparing Connor for the inevitable stress of what’s to come.

 

Nines rests snug in the back of Connor’s mind, a passenger in the body of his memory. 


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw: panic attacks continue, lots of vulgar language, physical / emotional abuse, references to drug use, references to canonical suicidal ideation, negative self-talk, dissociation, and probably a few more things in that vein. be careful 
> 
> also it's uhhh late o'clock and there's probably typos but i really wanted to publish this so i can write more stuff about these disasters

Suddenly Connor is warm and relieved again, descending in the elevator at 1554 Park Avenue—he feels good. A pleasant ember floats in his chest, which buoys his heart and makes his steps feel light.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 11% (STABLE)] _

 

Connor has removed his beanie and the receptionist does a double-take, gaping at the sight of his LED indicator—(Nines looses a mental snort of amusement at her expression, echoing Connor’s own smug satisfaction.) 

 

He remembers chuckling aloud under his breath at her confusion, striding out into the broad cone of sunlight that spills down from between the grey clouds. The day is bright. It is good, vibrant and honey-smooth and pliable, ready to be better.

 

A  _ [→MISSION SUCCESSFUL] _ congratulates Connor from the edge of his HUD, dropping a warm curtain of tingling delight over all his limbs and innards alike. It’s a welcome sliver of light slipping through the surly cloudscape of his guilt, pregnant with the promise of snow. The ice softens beneath its bokeh glow. 

 

(This elicits an inquisitive trill from Nines at the perimeter of his awareness, but he is already too immersed in the recollection to care. Nines sheds Connor’s dismissal with angelic understanding, retreating to silence.) 

 

Heading back home is like a victory march, and the smelly old bus has become his chariot. The sputtering grumble of its engine is the drumbeat of his homecoming, the screeching brakes a violin crescendo. Connor can’t care less for the odd looks he receives for grinning so broadly out the window.

 

Things aren’t perfect, but there is still hope for him. The world seems so wide and welcoming—and Connor is trying, eager and ready to fall into its expectant arms. He has a little trust, he thinks, that things will be alright in the end. He had slogged through the muck of his past for far too much of his short, violent life, and now is the time to move forward. He can manage that.

 

(Statistically speaking, not all days are bound to be bad ones—Nines rewards that thought with a warm gust of approval that thaws him somewhat, urging him on.) 

 

Connor remembers feeling that today has been good, unexpectedly so. Yesterday was nice. Maybe tomorrow won’t be, but who’s to say anything about the day after that? Promise yawns sweeping and languid before him, a glittering swath of hope blazing through the future.

 

Hank’s car is still in the driveway when he arrives at the house. It does not appear to have been moved since yesterday at least, but there is still ample evidence of activity to be found. Right away, Connor can detect some relatively fresh footprints meandering over the sidewalk in some wobbly sort of tango. The muddy slush that first made them has long since melted away, but the residue of dirt and damp smeared into the pavement has settled enough for Connor to make them out with little effort. There are fresh scratches near the lock where Hank fumbled in the cold and missed the key slot.

 

His chest tightens, but he admits that it isn’t a wholly bad sensation. Not quite apprehension—some form of affection, excitement, bleeds through his body, quickening his heart and propelling him with restlessness. It is slow and warm, but full to bursting with energy in teeming sparks that flutter eagerly against their confines. 

 

Hank is home again, and maybe that can be an opportunity for Connor to talk with him about what happened last night—or what happened today, for that matter. He is happy, he finds, and it’s probable that sharing the experience will help to cheer Hank up as well. He doesn’t need to run any calculations to know that making his best friend a little happier will be good for them both.

 

So he takes out the spare house key Hank lent him, fiddling a bit with the old, slightly rusty lock before pushing the door inwards. It’s finicky as an irreverent child, and seems to arbitrarily become stuck if the key isn’t slid in  _ just  _ right. Connor, in truth, is somewhat perplexed by the mechanics behind that issue. He thinks the wood of the doorframe swells with humidity and crowds it, but more data’s required to make any sort of conclusion. Maybe Hank would appreciate a replacement lock.

 

_ [→DIRECTIVE (LONG-TERM) = CONSIDER OPTIONS FOR FIXING DOOR] _

 

Sumo greets him immediately upon entry to the house—and the memory of his thumping tail is supplemented by the burst of affection that surges through his link with Nines. He assaults Connor with a barrage of sloppy kisses and scrabbling paws, lips pulled back in a broad doggy grin while he pants and snorts.

 

In return, Connor kneels and smushes the dog’s big wrinkly face, massaging his droopy velvet jowls and cooing baby-talk at him. He lauds Sumo as a very, very good boy with a few more vigorous scratches behind his ears before standing up again and calling out into the house.

 

“Hank?” He wonders if the older man is asleep in his room. “I’m home.” 

 

The responding silence punches through his fleeting sanguinity like shotgun spray, and Connor deflates—prematurely, he reminds himself. 

 

It is quite possible that Hank had left in the wee hours of the morning, for whatever reason, while Connor was resting in stasis, and might now need to catch up on sleep. Connor does not want to pry. It would’ve been considerate of Hank not to wake him while he went about his business. 

 

(He does not want to think too hard about the truth, so probably dismal. Not all days are bound to be bad ones, he reminds himself. The numbers may not seem to be on his side, but they aren’t his enemy. Everything may very well be fine.) 

 

Maybe something came up to do with the evaluation back at the precinct, and he didn’t want to disturb Connor—but the station sends the android direct notifications through his HUD—unless it was something just for Hank— 

 

Or it wasn’t. And there isn’t a good reason.  

 

(Nines is hovering silent at the fringe of his awareness, rapt. If he existed beyond consciousness right now, he would be trembling with anticipation.)

 

Sumo’s quiet huffs and the soft settling of the house are the only sounds that Connor can detect, and, irrationally, his thirium pump speeds once again. A bird chatters outside, and tires squeal in the slush a street or two over. Somewhere, a little dog yaps in a neighboring yard, making Sumo’s ears twitch to floppy attention before drooping back down again.

 

There is a heartbeat in the house, but no voice or creaking of the floor beneath human weight. Hank is probably taking advantage of their time off to rest, or maybe he is listening to music—unable to hear Connor’s address. There are plenty of things it could be.

 

Stepping further into the house, however, Connor’s olfactory sensors are assaulted by the all-too-familiar stink of alcohol, and something in him trembles. It’s an utterly destabilizing feeling: tectonic in its scope and its ferocity. Despite lacking the physiology, Connor feels sick.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 32% (INCREASING)] _

 

He can’t help but stagger system-wide at the jolt of unfettered horror that strikes him, preconstructive subroutines running through every worst-case scenario his processors can imagine. 

 

Hank has exhibited suicidal tendencies in the past. What if someone’s broken into the house and harmed him? Connor personally disposed of his household firearm and his service weapon is held in a locker at the station, but there are other ways to die—pills and blades and chemicals. What if Hank went out for something simple and reasonable, like toilet paper, and there was someone waiting for him at home? What if he found a way to— 

 

His systems panic, misfiring motor circuits making his hands quiver. Connor clenches them into fists, trying to override the erroneous trembling, but the shaking steadfastly refuses to abate.

 

(It’s endlessly deep and terrifying to be so helpless, even in recollection, but Nines hums through their link, steadying Connor before the memory’s playback can be interrupted.)

 

If he cannot brute-force himself back to calmness, Connor will rationalize his way there.

 

Sumo seems largely unbothered despite his needy requests for pats, so Hank is unlikely to be in any danger. This is a relative certainty. There is no sign of struggle, no scratches or scuffs, no tepid blood or acrid tang of gunshot residue in the air. Everything is as it should be. 

 

That knowledge does precious little to assuage the hitch of his heartbeat when Connor sees his partner on the floor. 

 

He is splayed out like a corpse, propped between the coffee table and the sofa—unmoving save the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Empty beer bottles are scattered over the living room floor, a half-empty handle of Black Lamb still clutched loosely in his lap. Hank had agreed to a six-pack of high quality liquor as opposed to twelve of the weaker stuff—the whole thing to be rationed throughout the  _ week _ . He has emptied all of them this afternoon alone. The whiskey must have been hidden in a private stash.

 

Connor’s throat feels tight even as he moves forward, on autopilot, to check on Hank.

 

_ [→DESIGNATION = LT. ANDERSON, HENRY (HANK)] _

_ [→SEX = MALE (POST-TRANSITION)] _

_ [→AGE = 54 YEARS] _

_ [→INJURIES = NONE (ETHYLIC COMA)] _

_ [→PRIORITY = HIGH] _

 

Hank’s face is ruddy and splotched, set off by stark crescents of bruising beneath his eyes. He looks like a stylized butchery painting, acrylic gore reflected in the aguey flush staining his cheeks. His expression is slightly pinched, uncomfortable even without consciousness, and a pang runs through Connor from toe to tip—guilty and miserable, he thinks. Those are feelings he has come to know very well, after the revolution. He should have made a better effort to seek Hank out, and he should have stayed to look after him.

 

(Nines prods him, drawing Connor away from his remembered culpability.  _ It’s not your fault _ , he says without words, nudging his brother with a gentle brush of reassurance. 

 

It does not help to change things because these are feelings that have already been felt, said and done. It does, however, help to put Connor more at ease in the present—draws him away from the sensations, like watching a movie of his life instead of reliving it. He blows a gentle draft of warm thanks back to Nines.)

 

Dutifully, Connor crouches over his partner to examine him further. Through the sour stink of old whiskey, he can taste the fine particulates of unfamiliar perfume in the air, on Hank’s clothes, a faint reminder of THC and cigarette smoke. He smells sweat, dead skin, bile still sunk in his beard, and cologne. He is also struck by the humid and porous flavor of sex—Hank had left to go not only drinking but clubbing, sleeping with strangers. Again. They will need to talk about that. Again.

 

(He had promised to stop the first time Connor caught him.)

 

The vague aroma of foreign shampoo is faint beneath the other smells, but Connor’s sensors are plenty keen enough to discern it from the cocktail of the rest. It tells him that Hank had stayed the night and showered at a hotel, not at home. That does not make sense.

 

_ [→RETRIEVE SYSTEM LOG… STASIS TIMESTAMP (NEWEST) =  _ 11:33.48 PM EST 11/4/39 - 8:47.20 AM EST 11/5/39]

 

Connor had fallen “asleep” around half-past eleven, and Hank had still been gone at almost nine the following morning when he awoke. The perfume samples are, at minimum, between seven and eight hours old, and the traces of THC seem to be even older, sunk deeper into his clothes. 

 

That would require Hank to have left… almost  _ immediately _ after Connor entered stasis, which means that Hank had deliberately avoided confronting Connor about his departure. He evaded any meaningful conversation despite the apparent progress the pair of them had made the night before, then disappeared for the next ten hours at minimum. Connor’s biofuel conversion tank feels too full despite being empty. He thinks he’s nauseous.

 

Hank slunk out in secret, then came back home reeking of decadence. Marijuana, obviously, which is legal and relatively safe in moderation for an adult, despite the potential lung damage caused by smoking it—that’s fine enough. Connor is more bothered that Hank went out to have sex. 

 

Humans, and some androids, are naturally sexual creatures, and as someone who does not experience those desires himself, it’s none of Connor’s business to decide how and when they ought to be satisfied. What Hank does to please himself in this way is none of his business so long as his own boundaries remain uninfringed. 

 

What  _ is _ his business is the substance abuse, and the disappearing act, and the recklessness of it all. Those things cross a line because—of  _ course _ they do. Connor cares for Hank, and if anything should happen to him? That, he thinks, would make him unspeakably sad. Hank is his best friend, his entire world—the loss of that foundation would leave him utterly broken. He likes to think that Hank would be just as upset if something happened to  _ him _ . 

 

And yet… The first thing Hank did upon arriving at the house was blow through his entire week’s supply of drinks and then some. He came home without contacting Connor—his working partner and housemate and  _ friend _ , or so he hopes—to let him know that he was safe.

 

That does not make sense.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 41% (INCREASING)] _

 

Connor is willing to let Hank be moody and grumpy and stubborn because that’s just something he does. It is, with understanding of the lieutenant's past and current character, perfectly acceptable—normal. Sometimes endearing, even, to spar with their words and dry jokes and playful insults. It’s part of Hank’s eccentricity. Weaning off the booze is stressful, too, so Connor has allowed even more leeway in his ornery fussing. Human bodies are fickle things, and Hank has been rather miserable without a buzz to ease his nerves, so Connor’s cut him slack.

 

He should not have.

 

( _ It’s not a weakness to be forgiving _ , Nines assures him.  _ It’s not your fault that he took advantage of you. _ He nudges Connor’s consciousness with delicate threads of pride, reassurance and honest care all plaited into a single humming sensation.  _ It’s okay.  _ It wraps around him like a security blanket.)

 

He should have pulled Hank aside the moment he started to drift—made him talk about this. Hank’s feelings have— _ ruptured _ inside him, spilling his guts and his blood, but whatever they are he’d rather exsanguinate than accept any help from outside. He’s trying to scoop his innards back in barehanded, slippery and uncooperative, while cursing a goddamn surgeon off the premises. 

 

How can Connor be expected to help if he isn’t even allowed to know what’s wrong? He does what he can to ease Hank’s weird, avoidant anguish with painkillers and water and tea ready in the mornings, forgiveness as Hank nurses his hangover and showers off the sex. It is an abysmal coping mechanism, but Connor allows it for now. One step at a time, he’d thought. That isn’t enough and he knows so. He knows better.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 64% (INCREASING)] _

 

His belly churns and fury sings a chorus of screams in his veins. Damn social convention and dancing around discomfort—the bubbling pit in his gut roars and strains, monstrous, against its chains. Connor grew a sense of shame, balking beneath the expectant thumb of a human audience and their standards. That idiot adherence has cost him. It is not a mistake he intends to repeat. 

 

Every social rule insists this is personal, that he’s going to cross some nebulous line and breach some barrier of trust—and it’s  _ bullshit _ , all of it. Connor damns his cowardice in bowing to those rules just because he’s deviant and expected to act human. He is not human. He does not want to be human, or mistaken for one, because he is android and that is a fact. (Which means nothing can stop him now.)

 

Connor is going to wake Hank—gently, because he’s angry, not callous. He is worried and that is unchanging—but after getting him sober they are going to have a very serious discussion. 

 

They are going to talk like reasonable people instead of walking on eggshells all the goddamn time. Connor is decisively sick of it.

 

So he begins by saying “Hank,” rather stupidly, because he already knows that this won’t be so easy. The man is cantankerous even when sober, and a little liquor in his blood has never been any help. Connor pats at the lieutenant’s face (a rush of nostalgia leaps through him, surging through his link with Nines—) and shakes him gingerly by the shoulders, repeating his name at a slightly increased volume in a vain attempt to get his attention.

 

It takes an uncomfortable minute and thirty-six seconds for Hank to finally peel his bleary eyes open. He sways dangerously and stares at something far-off beyond Connor, inebriated gaze unfocused and uncomprehending. “Th’fuck?” Slips strained and rough through Hank’s cracked lips. He’s about as sharp as a still-wet newborn as he struggles to parse and study Connor’s face, processing far too slowly exactly what he’s looking at.

 

Which means that Hank is still significantly intoxicated, and consequently that he has not been unconscious for very long. “Hank,” Connor sighs, unable to mask the disappointment in his voice even as his well-schooled expression remains as placid as a fawn’s. 

 

It is common for addicts to backslide and to relapse. He knows this, has all the statistics at the ready behind his eyes, but frustration still blooms heavy and insistent at the base of his cranial casing, crawling down his neck in agitated tickles. He had hoped, irrationally, that this would be easier. “Let’s get you up.”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 72% (STABLE)] _

 

Hank makes an odd crumpled face that does not look comfortable, lips curled into a tight grimace and eyes curved downwards. “Connor?” He slurs in question, blinking as rapidly as his sluggish responses will allow. 

 

He is functioning, according to the android’s estimates, at no more than fifty percent of his usual capacity, and that’s with a generous allowance for having just awoken. It’s an oddly nostalgic situation they find themselves in. Connor supposes that observation might be funny, were it not so mind-numbingly depressing.

 

Connor hums his confirmation, neutral. “Yes, Hank,” he says, bending at the waist to ease his partner into standing. Hank weighs like a sandbag, just as flexible in Connor’s grip as they begin to secure themselves. “Let’s get you up, then,” he suggests, supporting Hank’s arm and shoulder as they wobble to their feet. “Let’s get you up.” 

 

Hank’s head lolls dangerously to the left and Connor hesitates, movements stilted as he redirects his attention to the older man’s vitals. He’s alright, eyes responsive, heart rate acceptable—but his brow creases, eyes hazy and limbs stiff, uncooperative. Connor keeps still, only moving to adjust his friend’s slackened weight higher up on his shoulder while he awaits whatever Hank has to say.

 

“Quit fucking scannin’ me,” he growls at length, stumbling over his words like physical obstacles. He’s still incredibly drunk, unable to stand for his vertigo, but Connor is almost relieved that he’s attentive enough to have noticed the android’s tells, even if he is reverting to his old snappish demeanor. (He wishes he’d dumped out the shot of whiskey back at Jimmy’s when they’d first met.)

 

With a noncommittal sound Connor begins to straighten, pulling Hank up to his feet as well—but the lieutenant jerks suddenly, like he’s been shocked, and Connor lets him wrench himself away. If he is too forceful, Hank may opt to escalate the situation in his drunken state. Connor has no desire to pick shards of beer glass from the _extremely_ delicate neurovascular silicon layer that cushions the narrow space between his exo and endoskeletal systems. Again.

 

(He does not know how so much glass—not just powder from the break, but large cutting shards—made it so deep the last time a bottle was thrown at him during one of Hank’s fits of withdrawal. It was an objectively unpleasant experience even with nociceptive function disabled. Connor is also not eager for any opportunity to investigate the occurrence further that would involve replicating it, thank you.)

 

But his musings on all of the reasons he would not like to be full of glass are interrupted when Hank stumbles. He wrenches away from Connor’s reaching arms with a garbled snarl, only to nearly smash his head against the corner of the coffee table. In a blink Connor can preconstruct all of the probabilities where solid oak breaks through the skin and soft flesh of the human’s face, the eye, the nose—alcoholic blood spilling like water onto the carpet—  

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 88% (STABLE)] _

 

“ _ Hank! _ ” Connor cries out, because it’s the only thing he can think to do as he reaches out, still shaking afterimages of his treacherous imagination from his eyes. He can’t help but hover over the lieutenant’s hunched form, fussing and rerunning scans to ensure that everything is alright: vestibular dysfunction within expectation considering Hank’s level of intoxication, no trauma sustained, heart rate still acceptable.

 

He extends a hand to lift Hank back up. “Please let me help,” he says, while his partner wobbles and sways in a fruitless attempt to regain his upright footing. His vox modulator hitches. “You’re going to hurt yourself this way—” 

 

Connor screws his eyes shut, willing himself to keep in control. He is upset with Hank—very upset—but it won’t be of any help to break down before they’re settled and sober and ready to have this discussion. He wants to scream. Hank is so— _ pathetic _ right now that something as simple as a stationary goddamn coffee table is enough to spark terror in Connor for fear that he’ll hurt himself. The android is acutely aware of human fragility in that moment, terrified. He wants to cry. 

 

Instead he says “see, I can carry you to the bathroom and we can get you sober.” It’s a pitiful, rambling thing, this string of words that escapes him, disjointed and fractured as his junked predecessors where they sleep in their landfills. Briefly, Connor considers the merits of switching places with one. “We can get you sober.”

 

Hank slaps his hand impetuously away and Connor’s world freezes. 

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 93% (INCREASING)] _

 

It’s a thoughtless, meaningless gesture—but betrayal howls in his chest, taking handfuls of his lungs and squeezing, twisting. Hank has thrown things at him while drunk. Hank has shouted at him, cursed him out, sobbed on his shoulder and kissed his cheek. He has threatened eviction when Connor’s questioning had less tact and Hank had more hurt. He’s begged for Connor to stay, not to leave him when the nights were loneliest and Cole was the most present.

 

No matter how drunk and angry he’s been, Hank has never struck Connor, not with his own hand. He has  _ never _ hit Connor.

 

There is something ironically intimate about the way their fingers slip together—just for an instant, a mocking facsimile of their latticed hands at the town hall—before the faint sting of pressure and hurt filters through his systems. It is not true pain, not like a human feels, and Connor is undamaged by the blow, but he thinks it might be among the worst injuries he’s ever endured. He withdraws his hand, stung.

 

Hank, oblivious and irreverent, is fleeing on his hands and knees through the sticky puddle of spilled whiskey soaking into the carpet—desperate to put as much distance as possible between Connor and himself. “Fuck off,” he barks over his shoulder, and Connor does not dare move to follow him. “M’fine, just took a nap. Go away, stupid prick.”

 

Connor knows from experience that he will not go away. They have done this before—somewhere along the line as the alcohol leaves his system, Hank will slide from anger to sadness, and he will cling to Connor while he sobs like a child. That knowledge aches in him.

 

“Because you are so drunk,” he replies, unable to keep the sour bite from his tone, “So very, very drunk—I’m going to refrain from taking offense.” He can’t be upset by this. Hank can’t mean it. He’s drunk. He’s sick.

 

And he is not going to give up so easily, either. Still, they play this game as though something might change from the broken-record rehearsal of all of Hank’s other binges. It’s a routine, and as much as Connor loves regularity, predictability—is comforted by its congruity—he hates this. He hates this more than anything, sour and acidic in a way that burrows into his very bones, eating through all the alloy and polymer protections around his heart.

 

But Hank takes issue with that terse response—he’s barely finished spitting his challenging “oh yeah?” before he’s surging to his feet with sudden vitality, finally crossing the line from drunken indignation to true anger. He swings a clumsy fist at Connor, an ugly, graceless swat that he doesn’t really mean. It’s an uncurbed impulse that Hank would never act upon sober, but Connor’s throat constricts all the same as he moves fluidly out of the way. 

 

The first time—that’s a dumb reflex, a drunken mistake. This is dumb but it’s deliberate, and it cuts deep enough to strike bone. His hate spills out and makes him cold. Maybe Hank is just more  _ honest _ when he’s so intoxicated. Maybe he really  _ does _ hate Connor.

 

( _ Don’t _ , Nines warns him, hackles raised.  _ Don’t go there _ .)

 

“Why?” Hank goes on. His voice is sharp and alcohol-thick, and the gravelly tone of it that usually gives him so much character just makes him seem big and wild and mean. “Would it make you fuckin’ mad if you thought I meant it?” Connor opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. This isn’t fair. He is mute, and that just seems to inflame Hank further. “Yeah, fuck you too.”

 

Connor watches, frozen by some undefined cocktail of  _ bad bad _ feelings that all claw at him like vultures, pulling him apart in silence as his partner struggles to his feet. He leans on the coffee table like a crutch, clawing at the sofa on his other side, and Connor reaches out on reflex to help him keep balanced. Hank recoils from his each and every attempt at contact like his hands are burning. 

 

He keeps on staring, helpless, as Hank stumbles his way towards the bedroom, sagging heavily against the doorframe before stomping inside and slamming the door thunderously behind him.

 

Connor is able to pick the lock, if wants to. His hearing is far more sensitive than any human’s, hands steadier, movements more precise. It would be a trivial endeavor. 

 

Connor does not pick the lock. 

 

He blinks rapidly, tears pricking hot at his eyes like needles. (It is just saline lubricant. It only hurts because the area around his optical units is sensitive, and he is only sensitive to incentivize defense of his most delicate and expensive biocomponents.) He bites down on a sob, but the noise swells in his chest like a fledgling tsunami, flooding his throat and crashing against the seawall of his teeth.

 

( _ You’re okay. I’m here with you. I love you _ .)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 79% (STABLE)] _

 

The android sets his jaw, hands shaking—again. He shuffles up to the door, slow, and presses a palm against the firm wood. It is cool and gouged from where Sumo has reared and scratched at it, rough beneath Connor’s hand. “Hank,” he breathes. His voice feels swollen and choking in his throat, but it comes out tiny. He has never felt so small.

 

Connor slides down against the doorframe to sit on the floor, long legs folded awkwardly beneath him. He is cramped sideways, cheek pressed against the wood and arm twisted over his knees so that he can keep his outside hand still on the door. The artificial skin falls away from his arm so that Connor is naked, and every minute tremble of his exposed endoskeleton sends nearly-painful shocks of sensation bolting up his arm. 

 

“Hank,” he repeats, desperate. “Please don’t do this. We were making progress, Hank.”

 

It’s useless and irrational, but Connor imagines that he is interfacing, pushing forth his remorse and his hope and his  _ love _ as though Hank can feel it too through the solidness of the door. He  _ wishes _ —knows better—that he could just make Hank  _ understand _ . He wishes that he could understand Hank, too. He can’t. Maybe he never will.

 

There is a moment of silence that almost makes Connor hopeful, but then Hank’s voice cuts through the pregnant silence with a barked “fuck off,” followed immediately by “I don’t owe you jack shit!”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 85% (INCREASING)] _

 

Something in him crumples, and Connor’s fingers loose traction. His hand slides down the door. He can’t do this. He can’t do this anymore.

 

“I know,” he replies without thinking. There is a throbbing behind his eyes in time with his thirium pump, amplified sensation wracking his body with silent sobs. His voice is cool and even, like he’s programmed to keep it, but Connor cries. He can hear Hank gasp quietly through the door as he continues, “But are you going to stay there forever?”

 

Tears pool at the corners of his mouth, make his cheeks feel sticky and taut. Connor does not move to wipe them away, just lets them keep falling, overflowing with every blink. They cling to his eyelashes like dewdrops until he can’t see. He lets them stay there.

 

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” Hank replies. He sounds angrier than Connor’s ever heard him and he—doesn’t.  _ Can’t _ understand why. It isn’t fair. “I don’t need a cunt like you playing motherfuckin’ nanny anymore. Go lick some fucking evidence.”

 

(A thinly-veiled pulse of protective anger claws its way through his link with Nines, despite the younger android’s attempts at restraining himself. He is angry at Hank. Connor wishes he could be, too.)

 

Connor knows Hank—the lieutenant’s history. He is bitter and sad and tired of the world. He has seen lifetimes in comparison to Connor, and much of his experience has been a cruel teacher. Hank has learned not to get attached to anybody else because loss will hurt: he once said as much during one of his countless drunken ramblings.

 

Intellectually, he understands the implication: Hank cares for Connor, and has decided that he’s grown too fond, so he’s pushing him away. He doesn’t want to hurt again. It—it makes sense, logically, is more or less sound in its reasoning. 

 

This still does not make sense, and it isn’t fair.

 

He manages a sigh, sucking in a steadying breath. It hitches and crackles in his throat, makes him feel even less in control than he did before. “We’re off-duty,” Connor says sotto voce, “until the FBI is finished.” Hank already knows this, but saying so buys time for Connor to calm down, if only minutely. He cannot afford a breakdown, not now. “Please,” it feels like begging, screaming wretchedly into a blizzard that does not care to hear his voice. “Open the door so we can talk about this like adults.”  

 

Hank just snorts. “You’re one to talk,” he growls through the door, accusing. Connor’s thirium pump is locked and stationary but he can feel it disengage and crawl up his throat like an emerging animal. “Y’don’t know a damn thing about being a real fucking adult person. You’re what, like a year old? Come back when you can fucking vote, or at least sit in a loud goddamn room without losing your fuckin’ shit.”

 

No. That’s not fair. That’s  _ not fair  _ to say—Connor can’t help it. It’s not his fault. It’s not fair. His free hand gravitates towards his pocket.

 

( _ You’re right, you’re okay. _ Nines’ reassurances ride the back of a low rumble, outrage seething quiet and cold beneath the gentle warmth of his affection.) 

 

“I am an adult,” he asserts, truthfully, but his voice trembles. “I am an adult of my species. I am able to cope, with some assistance. You know—” Connor stops, taking pause. Of course Hank knows this. 

 

(That is why he chose to strike there. Because he  _ knows.  _ Hank is a mean, cunning drunk, when he wants to be. And right now? He  _ wants _ to be.)

 

He tosses his coin and catches it, silently counting the ridges of its circumference beneath the pad of his left index finger. It is an odd number. Connor likes odd numbers, and Hank hates this habit. (Though, he supposes, that isn’t going to matter much longer.) 

 

“Please. I don’t know what’s happened to get you here, and I want to apologize for my inattention, but I do know now that you’re hurting—please. Let me help you.” He means what he says. They can work through this together if Hank will just  _ talk _ to him. He loves Hank.

 

It is not enough.

 

“‘Adult of my species,’” Hank echoes. He is making fun of Connor, a poor, slurred imitation of his artificially neutral affect. “Sure thing, fella.” Incredulous rage makes Hank’s voice sharp and broad, like an axe blade that lodges itself in Connor’s chest. “Go back to special ed. I don’t need your fuckin’ help. Fuck off and play plastic housewife like you’re a real goddamn boy, see if I care.”

 

Hank is  _ mocking _ him. Hank is drunk and in withdrawal and he is hurting—but it isn’t  _ fucking _ fair. Connor knows that he has a…  _ deficit _ , in some areas, even among other androids, other deviants. He knows that he is, far too often, less than passable. It eats at him whenever the thought arises. Still, no one has salted that particular wound, not like this, and he hates that Hank is the first one to open him up.

 

Because Connor has confessed— _ confided _ in Hank his fear of inadequacy, the memory of punishment and the ghost of torture under Cyberlife always waiting in his periphery. And Hank had reassured him that he had nothing to fear anymore, that no one was going to hurt him for “fucking up every once in a while, Christ on a bike.”

 

Connor does not fail to recognize the irony of this situation.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 92% (INCREASING)] _

 

“Good night,” he manages to choke, suffocated by his own voice, “Lieutenant Anderson.”

 

And in a daze, he stands and walks away from Hank’s room. He feels detached, not like he’s floating above his body but riding as a passenger beside Nines in his own head while the hardware keeps moving. Everything is far away, as though through water, while he shuffles to his own room, stuffs his pockets with all three of the textured fidget toys he keeps on the nightstand, the rest of his cash, and an unframed photograph of Sumo. 

 

A pang strikes him at the thought of leaving this house behind, his worn clothes stolen from Hank, and the nice flannel button-up that Hank bought him, and the jeans that Hank helped him pick out—and as soon as it comes the wistfulness is gone. He has his fidgets and his Sumo picture, because they are important. They are all that he has now.

 

The dog in question whines at his heels, obviously sensing the tension. He looks with his big soulful eyes from the bedroom door to Connor and back again, restless and sad. Connor cooes to him and pats his head, then leaves the house.

 

It is dark outside, and he does not know where to go.

 

Connor returns to the present with Nines’ strong arms wrapped like iron bands around his torso. The younger man is shaking, crouched in spite of his own comfort on his knees between the couch and coffee table just so that he can hold Connor. He is fuming, but he strokes his brother’s hair with the gentlest possible touch, cradling his head and shoulders while Connor cries.

 

The thick musty smell of kibble and dust and alcohol is replaced by tea and books. Nines smells like cardamom. His apartment is warm, a soft-edged womb that cradles them both in its belly, unexpectant.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 84% (DECREASING)] _

 

There are not words to describe what kind of burden has been stripped away from Connor in opening up, but the feeling of it is reflected in Nines’ faceted gaze.

 

It is pale and glassy as he pulls back to look Connor in the eye, rimmed with saline and indecipherable. Nines has eyes like searchlights, piercing and heated with the intensity of his feelings. Turned to Hank, Connor thinks, Nines’ glare could melt tungsten to slop. He presents a wan smile, but there is cold fury lurking beneath the surface of his expression, and unabashed pride, and an outraged sort of sadness that makes Connor feel very small.

 

(He feels loved.)

 

“He’s wrong,” Nines assures him. His voice sounds like thunder and steel-bodied bells. “I can’t believe—listen to me, alright? Look at me.”

 

Connor obeys. “O-okay.” He stares at Nines through the wiggling lenses of his unshed tears. They collapse and streak down his cheeks when he blinks, and Nines cups his jaw to brush those tears away with his thumbs. His touch is tender and kind and smooth. This is something people do, just hold each other. Connor thinks he would like to do it more.

 

“You are  _ complete _ ,” says Nines, an unassailable declaration. “You know that, right?” His hard tone turns to satin when Connor hiccoughs up a tiny, whimpering cry. “You’re amazing, okay? You don’t need to change.”

 

(Connor is sitting down but his knees feel weak. His voice slackens and dies in his throat—he bites down on another sob. It is irrational to need to hear something like that, but bearing witness to his brother’s conviction—it breaks him. He collapses into the reassurance. This is all he needs to be. He is not a child and he is not inferior, but he is allowed to make mistakes.

 

Hank—Lieutenant Anderson. He’s wrong.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 64% (STABLE)] _

 

“I’m sorry, Con.” Nines kisses his forehead and Connor melts. “You don’t deserve this, I promise. This isn’t your fault, alright?”

 

Connor nods, can’t resist the incredulous laugh that squirms its way up from his belly. It’s a desperate, wheezing sound like a deflating beach ball, almost a squeak and laced with static. It is probably the strangest noise Connor has ever made, but also the most cathartic. He laugh-cries some more, returning Nines’ embrace with gelatinous arms.

 

There isn’t really anything more to say. His vision swims in vertigo, thirium pooling in his extremities. He feels far away, like his head is a balloon and it’s sailing away into the stratosphere while his feet stay on the ground. “I don’t want him to be right,” Connor admits, voice wavering as he gently pulls away. “He—”

 

“He isn’t,” Nines promises, keeping firm hands on Connor’s shoulders, grounding and steadying him. “I wouldn’t lie to you. What he said—it was just  _ cruel _ , Con.”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 68% (STABLE)] _

 

“Han—he isn’t cruel,” is Connor’s meek defense. Hank wasn’t fair but neither is this, right? “He’s just hurting. I should have been—”  

 

“No,” growls Nines, silencing him. His announcer-grade voice is suddenly predatory, slick and rumbling with ill-contained ire. “Nobody deserves that, especially not you. Nothing about that was okay, no matter what you think you could’ve done different. He said what he did because he  _ knew _ it would hurt you—that’s  _ cruel, _ plain and simple.” Some tension bleeds from his posture, but the angry crease between his brows does not smooth out.

 

Something vicious inside Connor agrees, says  _ I know _ . It also says that Lieutenant Anderson is bad for him, bad for his emotional health, and his career, and especially his wellbeing, and it’s right. (He just doesn’t know if he wants it to be.) 

 

Nines, seeming to read his mind, continues. “I know you really care about Lieutenant Anderson,” he concedes, expression softening further. “And that’s okay. I get it—he was good to you, for a long while.”

 

Connor nods. “He was. He’s—he was my best friend. Is that…  _ incorrect _ , in some way? Was I wrong?”

 

“No, Con.” He tosses his head, squeezing Connor’s shoulder. “Jeez, no. I only know as much as you do—a good bit less, really—but I’m confident in saying,” he raises his brows, leaning in to emphasize his point. “With complete certainty, that this is absolutely  _ not _ your fault.” Connor opens his mouth, but Nines keeps talking over him. “Nope. It’s not the weaning or the housework or the regular work or your funky taste in music or your random fact-spewing. It’s not  _ anything _ you’ve done, got it? I’m sure of it.”

 

“But—why?” He croaks. His throat feels like sandpaper, and Connor swallows hard despite not needing to. He knows better than this, intellectually. He’s done everything that could be expected of him, and logically speaking, it’s nothing to do with any deficiency on his part and everything to do with one on Hank’s. At this point, that’s obvious. He still feels like a failure.

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 70% (STABLE)] _

 

There is heat building behind his eyes, tears in wait and anxious to spill over. They are less sad tears of sadness and more so of… frustration, probably, bubbling and restless inside him. This is all idiotic and petty and stupid, after everything. Connor and Hank managed to weather a global upheaval of the status quo, a revolution that would forever change the face of the planet’s history—through all that they managed to remain thick as goddamn thieves, and now, in the stability of the aftermath, things all fall apart? And over what? 

 

Nines sighs, offering his brother a half-hearted shrug. “I don’t know,” he admits, gaze still searching, hardened. “He has some personal issues to deal with, for sure—and I honestly have no clue what they are. It’s probably better that way because it doesn’t matter. Know why?” 

 

Connor has no answer, but Nines does not wait for one. “Because whatever it might be, this is something he needs to work out for himself. He’s made it abundantly clear that your help isn’t welcome, so don’t waste your energy on him. You don’t owe him a thing, Connor. Focus on  _ you _ . If Anderson wants to buddy up with you again, he’s going to have to earn it, and that’s on him.”

 

“It’s hard,” Nines continues. “Because I know you still want to be friends—you miss how things used to be. That’s normal.” He sighs again, regretful. “It’s also, sadly, not realistic. Knowing that hardly makes things easier, though. That’s why you have me, okay? I’m here. You can stay as long as you need to get your feet under you again, or longer, if you like. I’ll always be around to talk things through.”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 59% (STABLE)] _

 

Connor intends to treasure his friendship with Hank—it shaped him, but the preservation of that relationship should never outweigh Connor’s preservation of himself. He thinks he’s starting to understand that now. Even if some misplaced guilt wants to burrow into his bones and make him heavy, Connor will endure. He  _ knows _ he can. He has to.

 

(Lieutenant Anderson is on his own.)

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 51% (STABLE)] _

 

He nods, disentangling himself slowly from Nines’ arms. “Thank you,” Connor manages to croak. “Thank you.” The words come out hesitant, small and splintered, but he means them, and Nines knows this.

 

“Of course.” His large hands come to rest over Connor’s where he’s folded them in his lap, a continued reassurance that he is here, that they are together. Connor appreciates the gesture more than he knows how to articulate in words, so he just hums and turns his palm over to lattice their fingers loosely together.

 

Nines visibly hesitates, appraising eyes flitting over his brother’s expression. “Where have you been sleeping since you left the lieutenant’s house?”

 

Connor averts his gaze. “I have been spending the required weekly time in stasis for maintenance and minor repairs,” he says. He has been doing the bare minimum to maintain his health and functionality, and it’s not entirely for the sake of convenience, or lack thereof, that he’s been straddling this line. “Housing is still a bit of a mess, legally—most places in the area are still hesitant to rent to androids, and I don’t have the funds to keep up in a hotel.”

 

“I know,” Nines replies, tone sharpening ever so slightly, like a chastising parent. “That’s why I’m bunking with a human. But where are  _ you _ staying?”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 66% (STABLE)] _

 

“The shelter at the community center.” There is a spinner in his pocket, (which apparently used to be  _ very _ big in the late tens) and his tangle, and a miniature rubix cube the size of a child’s palm. Connor fidgets with a loose thread on his pocket instead. “They allow me to use a charging station, and spare thirium if I need it, and the laundromat is nearby. I have all that I need.”

 

Nines furrows his brow, lips pressed into a thin line. “The shelter,” he begins, low and soothing. “That’s not a home. Please stay here instead.” He bulldozes Connor’s wavering attempt at denial to say “It’s no trouble, I swear. Just until you figure something else out.”

 

“But your roommate—” Connor interjects, only to be flattened again.

 

“Won’t be a problem. Mikey’s a nice guy, he’ll understand.” Nines’ pleading gaze rakes over Connor, imploring, and the older man feels his resolve begin to weaken. It wouldn’t be fair to make his brother worry.

 

Connor sighs and hugs himself. “Okay—just. Check with him, first. Please.”

 

“I’ll text him right now.” Nines stiffens, eyelids fluttering slightly as he connects remotely with Mikey’s phone. He mouths along to the mental text message he’s composing, then nods, eyes refocused once again. The human responds in mercifully short order, and Nines relays his assent. “He says that ‘you gotta do whatcha gotta do, my dude.’ That means you can make yourself at home, okay?”

 

“Okay. Thank you. Thank you.”

 

Nines squeezes his hand. “Sure thing,” he says, then “What would you like to do now?”

 

Connor hesitates, indecisive. His core is still cold and heavy, all of his little nooks and crannies filled up with tar and ice like burrowing insects. It’s not as bad as it was, in part lifted away in honest interface, but there is still some there, crawling inside him and making him weak. He does not think he would like to be alone right now.

 

“Am I allowed to stay?” He asks. “Right now, I mean.”

 

Nines’ expression twitches, unsure, but his eyes curve wistfully upward and stay that way. “Absolutely,” he replies, as though this is also a given. Some cousin of mischief comes alight in his eyes, and half a crooked smile spreads over his face. “Have you seen Bones?”

 

Connor has seen bones. A suspect once tried to leap between rooftops while being chased, but fell short and received an open tibial fracture for her trouble, plus a whole array of additional closed breaks and bruising.

 

“It’s the title of a show,” Nines clarifies, and Connor shakes his head. He hasn’t seen that particular Bones, but he thinks he would like to. He needs a distraction right now. Nines extricates himself from his awkward position crammed between the sofa and the table.

 

“Okay,” he says, “It’s an underappreciated classic. Mikey’s dad used to watch it all the time, so he’s passing the tradition on.” He grins wryly. “We can make fun of the inaccurate procedures.”

 

_ [→RK800 UNIT STRESS LEVEL = 39% (DECREASING)] _

 

Connor allows himself to smile. “I’d like that.”

 

And so Nines ushers him into his bedroom, digging through all of his clothes until he finds something that looks big and soft. After some deliberation, he tosses Connor a pair of fleece-lined sweatpants and a huge shirt with a terrier mascot on the breast. 

 

“Get comfy,” Nines says, and while it seems like an order Connor knows it’s a plea, a good-natured suggestion with respect to his feelings. He likes that.

 

Connor does as he’s told, carefully stripping out of his windbreaker and his jeans and his shirt and folding each article into a neat square. He stacks all of his clothes on the corner of Nines’ bed. The comforter is maroon and quilted, plush-soft like Sumo’s belly, and it gives beneath his hand when he touches it. 

 

His borrowed sweats are even more impressive—they’re thick  _ and _ fuzzy, just a bit too long for Connor so that they swallow up his toes and make it feel like he’s walking on a plaid mattress. The shirt hangs on him like a tarp, but the material is also very comfortable, a moisture-wicking athletic blend that feels smooth and silky against his artificial epidermis. 

 

He’s definitely comfy.

 

(Very briefly, he thinks of sharing hoodies with Hank, of the older man’s assertions that he needs to get out of ”that monkey suit” and into something comfortable. Nobody can relax in work clothes, he’d said. This is not the same, Connor reminds himself.)

 

Nines then ushers him back to the sofa, this time with a fuzzy throw blanket tucked under his arm. He hands it over to Connor, urging him to make himself at home once again before disappearing back into his room. The younger android emerges shortly afterwards in his own leisure clothes: flannel pajama pants and his own tee, this time emblazoned with a cartoon panda.

 

Together he and Connor push the coffee table aside so they can open up the fold-out, then splay together over the sofa in an amicably tangled pile. Nines laughs openly and Connor smirks when they tally up each procedural inaccuracy in the show. It’s funny. Mikey’s dad has good taste.

 

Not all days are destined to be bad ones, statistically speaking. Connor doesn’t know what kind of day today has been, but he’s willing to hazard a net good. That, he thinks, is a good enough start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Connor: i love hank, hes my best friend  
> Nines: wtf dude he's an ass and he doesnt deserve you  
> Connor:  
> Connor, utterly flabbergasted: what
> 
> Connor: im working to improve my life and grow beyond my past. you should try it  
> Hank: why would i do that when i can wallow in my ~crippling depression (TM)?
> 
> Hank: want to have sex with connor. i will solve this by totally fucking my relationship with him instead, see?  
> Hank, crying: please bone me robo twink

**Author's Note:**

> comments feed my soul jsyk


End file.
